I move closer to the tank and force myself to look.

His was the first dead body I ever saw. The man who floats here in the eerily glowing water used to terrify me – because he was proof. Proof of blanks and our victory. I never thought of his life or of the story of his death. He was a symbol – a deterrent and nothing more. Beware the blanks.

I reach out my hands, touch the glass. Tears fall without my realizing. Rain on windows. I wonder – can he hear the tap, tap, tap?

He could be any of them: Fenn, Solomon, Tanya, Gull. He was just a man with no marks and we made him a monster. We boast about not fearing death and yet we relished the horror that this man’s death made us feel. I remember we would lean on this tank as though it were a table. We’d fill out our worksheets, chat and bite the ends of our pencils, all the time treating this man’s grave as little more than a piece of furniture – a thing unremarkable save for its usefulness to us at that moment. My chest heaves and I whisper to this unnamed soul that I am sorry.

Standing here, I remember something, something from those long-ago school visits, and as if in a dream I walk to the thick, black curtain in the corner. I can remember our teachers would always tell us about the escape route in case of a fire.

The fire escape door is there, as I knew it would be. It is locked from the inside by a bolt which slides effortlessly even though my fingers shake. I open the door a chink, and movement catches my attention.

You can sense a spider out of the corner of your eye just from the shape of its movement.

That is how I feel about Jack Minnow. I loathe him, and yet I know him. I know how he moves. He makes me want to run, to retreat, to hide; but he also draws me to him. He intrigues me. Isn’t that how some predators work? They lure you on, even while your mind screams at you to run. But for now, I have the power, because he doesn’t know I’m here. I watch him hurry into the hall of remembrance, and then follow him. This is my turf.

In Saintstone they believe that so long as someone still says your name, then you are not forgotten. As a reader, Mum was entrusted with the reading of the names in the hall of remembrance. There is a tightening in my chest when I pass the threshold; she might be here tonight. But whatever I see, I must stay quiet. I am here as a shadow and no more – it is the only way.

Mum would sometimes take me along with her to the reading of the names when she was on duty. Some days I loved it, the sleepy magic of it – other days I was bored. I wanted to stay at home and play. Those hours of having to be quiet and unobtrusive have served me well, though. People come to the reading of the names to hear particular people’s names spoken or to light a candle or fulfil an oath. It would not do for a child to disturb their time of reflection. It meant that I learned to pass the time quietly and to find the darkest corners in which to settle myself in order to draw or play. You don’t forget the great hiding places from childhood – you only grow too big to fit in them.