It was the smell that brought me back to myself. That chemical, ammonia-rich reek. It worked like smelling salts and I opened my eyes to an explosion of pain above my ear and behind my eyes. I tried to move and discovered that I had no strength in my limbs. I was laid out on a cold, dank stone. I had a sudden image of da Vinci’s Vitruvian Man; my arms outstretched and my legs splayed against the perfect round circle of rock.

‘I thought this was enough,’ muttered Favre. ‘Truly. I stopped for so long. I lived right. Did well. Earned my right at a second chance …’

I tried to raise my head and fresh agony seared down my spine and into my hips. I felt as though my head was caved in all down one side. I don’t know what I felt. Confusion. Fear. Dread. I was in a place between sleep and wakefulness; between life and death, and my thoughts were a churning mess of fragments. I tried again to lift my head and he seemed to notice. A face appeared above me; repulsive and twisted: blobby, purple, wormlike lips and deep-set eyes. He looked at me with nothing readable in his expression. He saw me the way the slaughterman sees the next beast into whom he must drive the killing blow. This was almost work to him. This was what he was for.

‘I didn’t kill for more than twenty years,’ he said, his lips barely moving. ‘You might not believe me but after the war I made a decision not to draw any attention to myself. The loss of the war was a shock, Mrs Hemlock. You might not remember that but the Nazis were supposed to win. I had chosen a side that would allow me to do that which I was good at and that decision cost me my liberty. I hid in some terrible places as they hunted me. But Christopher knew my value. I had been a Milice elite. I had been close to the men who would form the new government. I was a man that mattered. Christopher’s unit reached out to me. Made an offer. He had persuaded his people that it was better to use what I knew than to add my name to the list of the damned. There were those who sought my execution for the events of ’44 but when Christopher caught me and I shared all I knew, he made the correct decision. I could help him. I knew things nobody else did. There were many like me. Men who could be valuable to the allies, whether it be for their skills or their secrets. It was my secrets that he needed. For countless days I fed him information. I proved my value. And he was as good as his word. He provided me a new life. He is one of the Old Boys, remember? A good chap.’