‘Now, here we are, cosy and private. How about you tell me who you are and what you do for Anacrites?’

No answer.

I threw a bucket of cold water at him.

43

A development.

Helena Justina had been brooding ever since we first brought the man into the house. Now she braced herself, waited until everyone else was preoccupied, then came down to see what was happening.

We had the bench standing properly at that time. He was looking up at the ceiling, or he would have been, had he not appeared to be asleep. Petronius and I were standing back, arms folded, thinking up our next move. At that quiet moment, Helena must have been surprised by the ordinary atmosphere. She may have felt relieved by the lack of violence. Then she realised it was more sinister than it appeared.

Petronius and I greeted her affably. Outwardly normal, we could have been two men in a workshop who had been preoccupied with a big carpentry project; she could be the woman of the house just making sure two simple lags were not drinking nettle beer brewed in a billycan or reading pornographic scrolls. Our sleeves were rolled up high. Our attitude was businesslike; though drained by days of concentrated, unsuccessful effort, we were feeling weary.

The man on the bench seemed aware that Helena had entered the room. His eyelids flickered, though his eyes stayed closed. She stood there: more gaunt facially since she lost the baby, tall, positive though wary, dressed in drifting summer white, wafting a light silver-blue stole, as cool as refreshing sorbet chilled in a rich man’s snow-cellar. He might smell her citrus perfume. He must hear the quiver of her bangles and her clear voice.

Observant and intelligent, she absorbed the scene. I watched her looking for signs of what we had been doing—while dreading what she might learn. There was nothing to see. Everything looked clean and neat. She focused on the man. She saw his exhaustion, how hunger, thirst, isolation and fear were bringing him close to hallucination, despite his ferocious will to resist. He had to fight now, to stop his mind wandering.

Helena realised how our task had dispirited Petronius and me too, how our power over the helpless man would soon defile us. Most men would have been corrupted from the moment the prisoner was taken and tied up, his helplessness freeing them from moral restraint. Even we had to struggle to avoid being most men.

‘This is too brutal. I want you to stop.’ The words were firm, but Helena’s voice shook.

‘We can’t, love. It’s about long-term sanction of bad neighbours’ bullying. It’s about murder, and official cover-ups of murder. He seems to be involved. If his activities have an innocent explanation, he only has to tell us.’

‘You are being bullies too.’

‘Necessarily.’

‘He is close to collapse.’

‘He has endured worse, we can tell.’