I discovered the therapeutic power of poetry as a child. It helps me make sense of the senseless, and brings the magic of chaos to order. The mystery of interpretation, someone once told me, is that we can project ourselves into the spaces between the words and find room to imprint our own meaning. Our souls flourish in those spaces.

Someone wrote a poem for me once, and I’d like to share it with you.

Life’s colour dancing on fragile wings

Flower to flower

Beautifully elusive

Clearly seen, floating on

But closer gazed

Gone

Those ethereal wings

Churn a storm

Of winter wind and hail

That chips and flakes

The stone king’s face

And all he thinks and knows

And on the heather

Royal purple blooms

Inviting you to come again

If we list the biological characteristics of a flower, do we diminish its beauty? I think the same is true of poetry. If we tear the verse apart, all we’re left with are words, but sometimes one can’t help but analyse. This work has played on my mind for years. Am I the stone king? Is it about humility? Or love? Or truth? Sometimes I think it was just meant to torment me, to give me something to do, like a sudoku puzzle, infuriating, yet strangely addictive. I shall devote at least some of the years ahead to try to understand its meaning. If you have any insight, do please write to me. About this, or anything else. I would very much like to hear from you.

With love,

Ben

Part Two

The Man

Chapter 33

Elliot Asha had grown into a fine man.

His soft brown hair flashed with hints of gold in the bright sunshine. His muscles shifted beneath his Lycra shorts as his legs carried him along the cobbled street at speed. His oversized cotton rowing shirt swung from his broad frame. At six-one, he stood taller than most of his crew. The eight of them joked and jostled each other as they dodged the tourists clustered at the bottom of Bear Lane. They raced up to the High Street, which was thronging with crowds, crossed the busy road, dodging traffic, and turned onto Turl Street. They ran along the old street, past the souvenir shops on one side and the imposing sandstone college walls on the other.

‘Bar?’ someone at the back of the group suggested.

Elliot’s books were in the library and he’d gone to the training session with every intention of returning to his studies, but he was thirsty and the lure of a cold beer on a sunny afternoon proved too strong to resist.

They slowed to a walk by the college gate, which had been built like the bailey of an old castle, and one by one they stepped through the small doorway that was cut into the huge double gates.

Founded in 1427, Lincoln was one of the oldest colleges in Oxford. Located in the heart of town, it was built around three quadrangles, with All Saints Church as a sentinel that stood guard at the southern mouth of Turl Street. A small Oxford college, Lincoln was known for its good food and friendly atmosphere. There was a rumour it had been one of the principal university hubs for recruitment into the intelligence services, and college legend had it that John Le Carré had modelled George Smiley on a former tutor, Vivian Green.