It is not what I was expecting. It is early in the morning but the settlement wakes early and the hub of Bran can never afford to close down. I go up to the first door. The sign says Ministry of Agriculture.

I smile. It was me who insisted we give these departments grand names. They conveyed a sense of purpose. The only truly important office in this building was my own. That was where all the major decisions were made. Though it was called the Ministry of Agriculture, all that happened there was the counting of the crops we managed to grow and the monitoring of our small livestock herds. Next door the Farming Licensing Agency did not license farms or regulate the bigger providers. Instead it handed out licences to individual citizens to grow certain crops for public consumption on small areas of land.

Though this was all it did, it was important, for a licence was, for many, the difference between an a or b citizen’s grade and a c. There were often queues of supplicants outside its doors, mostly old women, a few old men. I remember standing in my offices, leaning out the window, looking down on these people. I saw Tora’s mother in the crowd. I sent down word that she was to be licensed. It was a reprieve, though inevitably not one that lasted forever. Like the Ministry of Agriculture the Farming Licensing Agency is closed.

The death of Tora’s mother was not a simple affair, not as simple as I may have intimated. She was well liked in our town. There was a silence, a darkening, when it became known what had happened to her. I had to walk to her home. I went unaccompanied and let myself in. I did this because I had taken on the task of deciding who would be classified c. I did this to spare others the task. It was not a pleasant thing and I do not lack compassion. I let myself in and went to her in her bed. Her eyes were closed. I brushed my fingers over her cheek.

The skin of old people can feel lifeless, like dry sand. Hers was cold too. An eye fluttered open. She looked at me with the one eye. It was open wide. She did not blink at all. I looked into it and waved my hand in front of her. She reached up to me with one arm. She seemed to be trying to move her mouth. Sound came out but it was nothing.

Not a word. A gurgle. It was fear. Fear of me, the bringer of death.

I knew she was paralysed on one side of her body. The rules were clear. She would have to hang.

I sent a cart for her. Or rather I went with it. Just me and the hangman. There was no need for a soldier this time as there was no chance she ’d be able to escape. I went with all of them. I wanted them all to see compassion before they died, to see that their hanging would not be in vain. It was my responsibility.

I lifted her from the bed. She was remarkably heavy. The tongue moving, gurgling again. The one eye open, her good arm and leg thrashing. I placed her in the cart and led her out through the town gates. It was after sunset but there was a full moon. The hangman drew the cart after him. There was a loud crack and the cart began to tip over.

An axle had snapped. I ran to it but was too late. It landed on its side and she slid out. The blanket fell off her and her legs were uncovered.

I saw the veins and the bruises in the moonlight. The body of an old woman. I lifted her to a sitting position. Her head lolled to one side and I took it in my hands. She was breathing quickly now. I felt a warm liquid on my hand. Her face was cut from the fall and bleeding heavily.

So much blood from someone half dead. I wiped my hand in the dirt.

I lifted her up, placed her over my shoulder. Through my clothes I felt her, I felt her heart beat. A broken woman but a heartbeat so powerful I could feel it through my coat.

On the way she vomited. I was covered in it. I felt myself gag. But I did not allow myself to let go. I carried her to the trees and set her down. ‘Do it,’ I said to the hangman. He did not move. I went up to him and slapped him across the face with the back of my hand. ‘This is your duty,’ I said to him. ‘This is what you contribute.’

From behind me I heard a whimpering. I knelt in front of her. I wiped the sick from her mouth, the blood from her face. I wanted to say something to her. I wanted to whisper something to her so that the hangman wouldn’t hear. I wanted to whisper something that would make her unafraid, that would make her understand, that would make her not see me there in front of her preparing her for death. I had something ready to say but I couldn’t say it. I cannot remember what it was. I couldn’t say it. I had to hold her up. Her legs wouldn’t support her. I held her up from behind while the noose was tightened around her neck. It was like she was already dead but I could feel her shaking. I held her tight, smelling her warm, old woman smell, then I let her go.

I can remember feeling grateful that Tora was not there, that she would never have to witness something like this.

When the act was done we released the body from the noose. We placed her in a sack. There were two bodies already in bags from the day before. They were to be buried the next morning. I did not see where she was buried.

Back in my office I stood at the window in the moonlight. I was naked. I had a damp cloth and wiped myself. I slowly wiped away the blood and the vomit. I stood there for an hour, cleaning myself.

I step back and look up at the windows for the first time since entering the courtyard. There, though I cannot be certain, I see a shadow, a figure slipping quickly back into the dark and out of sight. I stare up for a minute but I can see nothing more. It was no more than a flash.

I look round at Andalus. He stands in the middle of the courtyard. His pose mirrors that of the girl, hands at his side, head down, red coat.

I continue round the circle of doors. Each is looking older. If the paint is not peeling then the plaque is obscured, but the complex still appears to be in use as the settlement’s administrative offices. Why leave the names in place if not?

Two-thirds of the way round I come to my door, the entrance to my offices. I think I deliberately started on the far end, deliberately did not come to this door first. I wonder who will answer the door and who is Marshal. Will it still be Abel or would he have been replaced?

It has been only a decade though and he was a young man with ascetic habits. Unless he has died it will probably still be him. I wonder what his reaction will be.

Though it might seem strange, I did not, and do not resent him for going behind my back. We were both politicians and he was the quicker at sensing the change in sentiment. He sought to encourage it, while I attempted to change it. He had the arguments that appealed though. No doubt he had the easier path but I knew what I was doing.

I believed in what I was doing and I respected his belief too. Perhaps that made it difficult for him to shake hands with me when I left.

Perhaps there is nothing more powerful than a man who admits defeat graciously. It is not a power of this world though.

I shook his hand on the grey beach and his hand was wet and he would not look me in the eyes. Alongside him was Tora. Her hair flicked in the salty breeze.

Sometimes, I admit, I did not quite know what to make of Abel.

Though he was my second-in-command, he was difficult to read. Sometimes he appeared displeased when, probably, he was just being efficient.

I wonder what would have happened had I chosen someone else to be my successor. I have often wondered this.

This door at least is well kept. It gleams white and the plaque, this one made of brass, has been recently polished. It simply reads ‘Marshal’.

I lift my hand to knock but the door opens immediately, as if someone was waiting for me. The man standing before me is dressed in the same uniform I used to wear and has medals pinned to his chest.