Finally, I dressed in my own clothes and shoes, then went down to the street. I walked across to the vendor and bought some food. The cauldron beneath his cooking plate was glowing bright red in the breeze from the sea. He passed me the filled pitta, with a paper napkin and a wooden fork. He sold me a bottle of iced water too.

I said: ‘When you’re finished for the night, how do you deal with the hot coals?’

‘It’s charcoal,’ he said, looking beyond me, hoping for another customer.

‘So how do you deal with the charcoal?’

‘What do you mean?’

‘Do you just leave it here on the side of the road? Do you have to put out the fire?’

‘Incinerator,’ he said, nodding in the direction of the hotel.

I remembered the untidy yard beyond the building. It was an enclosed area, behind a high chain link fence and an unlocked gate. ‘You dump it over there?’

‘Incinerator. The town truck clears it out at daybreak.’

The pitta sandwich was delicious but I didn’t want to take it to my room. I strolled around, eating and remembering – remembering most of all. Memories filled me. I couldn’t finish the sandwich.

Back in the room I stayed obstinately awake. I kept trying to justify what I had done, make excuses, but then would turn defiantly against myself. Hari was dead! It was done at last! The sounds from the street gradually quietened. It was long past midnight. When the stillness had lasted for more than an hour I left the bed, and picked up the small bundle of clothes.

The main door to the hotel was closed but not locked. No one was on the desk, or in the tiny office behind. I went out into the silent streets.

I doubled back, walking along the narrow street that ran beside the building, to the yard. The gate was wide open. The whole area was a mess, with rotting rubbish spilled on the ground. Several immense hoppers lined one side, waiting to be emptied or carted away. At the back of the yard was a walled area, which the pitta vendor had identified as an incinerator. It was in fact just an area where hot cinders from braziers could be dumped at night. It was obvious that the contents of more than one brazier had been emptied here. There was a wide and multi-peaked mound of cinders and ash, emitting heat while not actually releasing flames or smoke. Patches glowed bright red where the breeze caught them. Sparks briefly flew.

I tossed my incriminating clothes as far towards the back as possible, then watched for as long as it took for smoke to rise.

No sleep followed, that night.