Now that we reach the bottom of the shaft, however, I see none of this complexity. A slimy tunnel smelling of the privy, that’s all. Within ten steps we roust a nest of rats. Julius leads the way as before, hurtling ahead, straining against the edge of Boswell’s lamplight like a hound on a leash. I am not sure whether he is following a trail or already knows our destination. At times he pauses at intersections and stands sniffing the foul air. Once, he leans against the wall and darts his tongue across its mould. Then he is off again, always with the same jerky, marionette movements and attended by the cape of his Smoke. My watch has stopped, won’t be wound. We have stepped beyond time.

I ask Julius where he is leading us.

“Ahead,” he says without modulation, the broken jaw flapping with the word.

Ahead. So be it: in the name of the state. Like me, Julius has now become its servant. The state is not choosy; enlists whatever tool is fit to its purpose; cares not for the tool’s own motivations, or rather enlists those too, weaving them into the fabric of its needs. For what does he want, this broken, nightmare boy? Why does he lead us with such haste? Revenge on Thomas, I suppose; matricide. Whenever I mention Mr. Argyle or Lady Naylor, a darkness spills out of him that I try my best not to inhale. My man, Boswell, catches it once or twice: the whites of his eyes are turning dun. Julius, I realise, is not mad. He is that thing from which madness is knit.