‘Sit down,’ said Cordelia, pointing to the kitchen table. The recorder was already sitting there. It reminded me of a Christmas present, wrapped so expertly that its contents were completely obscured. There was something thrilling about not knowing what we would find. I remember my heart beating faster than it should have done and the hairs on my arms rose up like the sails of a ship in a bottle.

‘Whatever we find …’ began Cordelia.

I nodded, though I didn’t truly know what I was agreeing to.

It was Cordelia who pressed the buttons that started the reels rolling. I don’t think I could have done that.

At first there was just a hissing noise, like the brakes of a lorry. Then the sound of footsteps started bleeding out through the speaker. After a moment there was the unmistakable sound of running water.

‘That’s a river,’ I said, unnecessarily.

‘Ssh,’ said Cordelia, patting at the air.

The sound of the river continued for almost five minutes. I began to wonder if that was all we would hear. Then there came the shrill chirruping of a bird. It was a high sound; a collection of whistles, trills and clicks, like somebody fixing an old church bell. It evolved into a sound like a flute; a solemn noise, like an old hymn. If I had to describe what the bird was saying I think the word was something like ‘pioo’ but that doesn’t really sound right either. It was the noise of a child firing a pretend ray-gun.

I realized I could feel Cordy against me. Whether she had huddled closer to me or I had done it to her I really don’t know but there was no mistaking that we were now pressed together like dolls on a shelf.

The sound of the bird continued. At length it became a river and footsteps again. Were we listening to the steps of the dead man?

‘That can’t be all,’ said Cordelia, and I could see the confusion in her face.

I had nothing to give her save my own mask of disappointment. I was about to offer her some pointless consolation about it maybe being for the best, and then we heard the voice. A short, clipped ‘hello’. I almost jumped out of my skin.

‘Hello. Hello, sir. Sir. Monsieur!’

I closed my eyes. Every inch of me felt like there were spiders crawling all over it. It was a Frenchman’s voice, of that I was certain. And it contained something that made me think of a smith’s forge; all steam and steal and danger and sweat.

‘Sir. Stop. Arrretez. S’il vous plaît. S’il vous plaît. Il n’est pas ce que vous en pensez. Savez-vous de moi, monsieur? Je sais que vous. Mon Dieu, je sais que vous …’