He still hesitates. It feels so strange, he tells himself. And something is struggling, struggling to be heard.

And then it’s settled. Decided. His face is flushed again from Stig’s insult, and he is trembling on account of the threatening note. Under observation. They are under observation themselves. They don’t realize how much he knows about their affairs, how much he has listened to here on the sly. He knows more than is good for them, if he chooses to remember it.

And now he does choose to. Or rather he doesn’t choose to, he must.

Now Stig must pay for it. He has no right to walk around here.

He looks into the flame and says, like a judgement: Stig is guilty of everything of which he stands accused.

There is no way round it. Not for Stig, nor for me. I am obliged to do this. It has fallen to me and I shall not waver. I have never done so when I have felt obliged.

By now he is truly agitated. He and the little white flame are one. He puts his polishing equipment away and walks along in the direction of the shining arrows.

He must do it quickly.

He walks down the arrow corridor with his arms swinging, free and easy. He has no ladder to carry. He is free and easy and he walks down the middle of the corridor. He does not care to come close to the walls: they are so silent and closed one never knows what might come out of them. He has seen so much in the course of his work. These walls are dark and strange.

He has never taken a walk like this. Arrows are glistening all round him. He has polished them himself, but that has nothing to do with present; it seems a long time ago. Now he is simply trying to walk erect and in the direction of the arrows, towards the hidden destination to which they point the way. And how he walks! He is carried along. He has never known such a walk.

The arrows are swimming around him. They have come alive, forming suction and currents. They are bewitched and he is under the spell. They gleam around him, but they are beginning to gleam within his brain too. This increases his speed towards his destination. He is lifted up and sucked along. The arrows are beautiful. They curve around the corners, he follows them, a ringing in his ears. The arrows lead him forward along another shining corridor. They lift him up. He hurries on down the middle of the passage, the dark, silent walls behind the arrows on both sides of him.

He never looks at the walls.

Leave them be. He has never known anything like this journey.