I crumpled the cigarette pack in my hand. The tenses in his English were sometimes hard to decipher: the present was also used for the past. Did he mean that seeing Isabelle killed had helped persuade him to come with me - or was he sympathizing generally? Perhaps both. I had a sudden memory of her sitting and smoking in her black swimsuit on the breeze blocks at the Lagos Yacht Club, when I had mistaken her for Anna. And then later that night, her body glistening with sweat as she had called out to me in the dark.

‘She wasn’t my girl,’ I said. I considered whether or not I wanted to know the answer to my next question, and decided it might be important. ‘What’s the procedure for prisoners’ deaths?’

He nodded. ‘It depends on the importance of the prisoner. I think they will bury her and the compound reverend bless the ground. But I don’t think they tell anyone about it.’

‘No.’

It would probably be weeks until her office became worried enough to notify the embassy in Lagos, and then her parents - were they in France? I couldn’t remember if she had said - would fly over and start trying to piece together what had happened.

‘This war must end!’ said Gunner suddenly, standing and spitting on the ground to emphasize the point. ‘I want no more part of it.’

I wondered which part he meant - the shooting of Isabelle, or the fate of the Biafrans? Isabelle had not deserved to die, but she had chosen to be here, chosen this cause. And she had chosen, finally, to confront an armed soldier while a prisoner of war. The Biafrans, on the other hand, had had no choice, or very little. Fight for one side, fight for the other, or fight for none. Another image swam into view: their skeletal frames immobile on those flea-infested mattresses. The flies buzzing into the huge eyes of the children as they had stood in the hut. I pushed it down, as Gunner had pushed me down into the wet earth a few minutes before. Humanity coming over the hill. Don’t let it spot you.