Calley turned. The door showed itself with outlines of grey light. He crossed to it, left the room, entered the lit shadows of the second room, collected his shako from the chair and went out into the true brightness, that glare that seemed to erase him. He stood a while at the top of the steps letting his eyes adjust. There was a great noise inside him, a clashing of voices, like the sound of a riot or the sound of men screaming in battle. Then he felt a breeze on his cheek, something blowing up from the shore, and he felt refreshed, calm. Below him, the courtyard was empty of everything but the stallion, though once he had descended and was making his way to the gate he saw that there was someone, a servant presumably, squatting in the shade by the side of the horse. For a moment he thought of asking who he waited for but that, he knew, would be a poor beginning. He put on his shako, adjusted the chin-scales, let himself out into the street. Boys followed him, impersonating his walk, his bandy legs. It did not unsettle him; he had received such attention all his life and always from those as poor as himself. He thought, those fuckers could have hanged me! Then nearly laughed out loud at the pleasure of recalling the voice in the room, the power it had given him, and to him alone. Like a secret spring drunk from in darkness.

3

The steps from the quayside were steep and narrow, and Lacroix’s bags brushed against the blackened walls. A big herring gull watched him come, stood its ground, then flew off low over his head. He winced, felt foolish, kept climbing. The higher he went the better the houses. His sister’s place was a little over halfway up and would in time, no doubt, be higher still. Her husband, William Swann, was the son of a man who had run a team of drays in the city, an intemperate man, a notorious brawler, but William was sober, industrious, a respected shipping agent who combined a sure knowledge of his Bible with a sure grasp of bookkeeping and the life of money. And having Lucy for a wife made his rise more certain. A gentleman’s daughter counted for something, even in a city like Bristol where old money meant the slavers whose ships lay idle now but who still lived on the city’s heights like nabobs.

It was almost a year since he was last at the house. When the servant girl answered his ringing he did not recognise her, nor she him. He left his bags in the hall and followed her up to the first floor where he was shown through to the room at the front.