“I remember now,” I tell him when he next makes his visit. “He received a telegram once, the man in La Rochelle. The porter called him over. We were having lunch at the hotel.”

“So you heard his name.”

“Not clearly. In any case, I must have misheard. You see the name was English. But Englishmen are no longer allowed to travel abroad, are they not?”

“Just tell me what you heard.”

“Ashton,” I say. “Mr. Sebastian Ashton.”

The fat man’s eyes light up. “Sebastian Ashton! Ah, very funny.”

He turns to one of his clerks who always seem to be hovering in some corner, just within earshot.

“Find out everything you can about the sewer project in the city. Check on the immigration paperwork for the whole company. And set up surveillance.”

“Am I free to go?” I call after him, as he makes to leave.

“Soon.”

ф

There is a commotion some hours later. Two men bring in a yelping dog. It is a big beast, a bloodhound. Both its hind legs appear to be broken. In between its howls, the dog tries to snap at the men. They throw it in the cell next to me, where it cowers, sniffing at the air, staring at me with blood-rimmed eyes.

The fat man appears in order to have a look at it.

“Make sure you don’t smoke,” he says to me. “It goes wild over Smoke.”

“What is it?”

He shrugs. “A related inquiry.” He reaches through the bars with a stick, touches its side. The dog whimpers, then sinks its teeth in the wood. “My men say they did not see the owner. But I think they saw him and were afraid. Of a schoolboy! There’s a rumour on the loose. . But of course, you already believe in the devil, Captain.”

“What will you do with the dog?”

He looks at me in good humour. “What we do with all our prisoners. Tame it, or kill it.”

“Am I free to go?” I ask again.

“Soon.”

At least they have started feeding me again.

SCAR TISSUE

SCAR TISSUE

Do you still pray?”

The words are small things, fragile: the hush of the church soaking up Charlie’s voice.

Thomas does not need to think about the answer.

“No,” he says. “It’s all a lie.”

“It is. And yet I do. Despite myself. Late at night: hands folded under the blanket, where even I can’t see them.”

“Why?”

“Habit, I suppose. There could be, you know. Something real behind all this bloody mess — but look at you flinch!”

“You swore,” Thomas complains. “Charlie Cooper swears. In church. Where God can hear.” Then adds, lightly, looking down the length of the nave. “So it appears I also still believe.”