I remember his house very clearly, its walls made from the same bleached-grey wood as the rest of the buildings, strengthened here and there with mud baked solid. I often strolled past it on my daily walks around the town. These would take me from the town hall to the main gate and then in an anti-clockwise direction. It took me an hour and a half for the five miles. Smaller than my island. His house was three-quarters of the way round, set back from the walls, the entrance down a narrow passage. I would sometimes glance down it when I walked, at the one window visible from the street.

Every now and then I saw Abel through the window or coming out or going in. I would wave. I would very rarely stop. We spent the whole day together and did not need to talk more than that. Towards the end I saw other officials there too on one occasion. It was late. I was in the shadow of the wall and I do not think I was seen. When his guests were gone he was framed in light from the doorway. I moved and my feet crunched against the gravel. ‘Who’s there?’ he called out. I did not answer. Though he was looking in my direction I know he did not see me. If he had, he would have greeted me. I knew all of them – I had appointed them after all – so why didn’t I make myself known?

Though I did not allow the thought to surface then, I knew. Suspicion begins in the marrow. That night was the start of it all, months before anything happened, months before I was arrested.

I think I wanted to scare him a little, though I didn’t yet realise why of course. I wanted him to be afraid of the shadows, of what might be out there. But it is only people with imagination who can be afraid and I have always felt he was lacking in that area. It is I who imagined a better life. He executed orders. I wouldn’t call his plot imaginative.

Expedient yes, imaginative no.

As I walk around the town walls, I glance over my shoulder to see if anyone is looking and trail my fingers across the wooden walls. I would do this sometimes. I like the touch, the tangible sense that what these walls contained was dependent on me. I also liked that every time I ran my fingers over the wall, fragments, splinters would fall to the ground.

Every time a little of the wall was destroyed. That is the instinct of one who is afraid of heights: you do not want to but you feel drawn to the edge, feel an urge to jump.

I never saw Tora leaving that house.

Almost before I know I am upon it, I am standing at the entrance to the alleyway. I look through the window but a shade covers it and I can see nothing. I move down the alley and knock on the door, loudly, three times. There is no answer. The door rattles on its hinges. It would not take much to kick it in.

I lean down to try to see through the opening at the bottom of the door. I look through the keyhole but it is blocked and I can see only a faint glimmer of light. A key on the inside maybe. I stand and wait.

I wait for five minutes or more. I press my ear to the door and knock lightly this time.

I become aware of a man standing at the head of the alleyway. He is old. He has his arms at his sides. He looks at me. He does not blink and his mouth is open. I stand up straight. I take a step towards him.

My mouth too is open. I take another step and he has turned on his heel and is running. From the entrance to the alley I watch him. He runs like an old man. I take a deep breath, smile and run after him. I tell myself not to hurt him when I catch him.

He is old but not as slow as I thought he would be. Every time I think I’m catching him he disappears round another corner. He weaves in and out of buildings. I do not shout out to him. He knows I know him.

I struggle to contain the anger rising in me.

I fly around a corner and run straight into a man. I am knocked flat. He has held out a stiffened arm. He does not say anything, this man.

I cannot see. I am dazed but I sense he just looks at me lying on the ground. Then he walks off. I get up slowly, first to my knees then to my feet. I call to him, ‘You!’ I shout. He pretends not to hear. I lean against the wall and recover my breath.

I have lost the other, the old man, the judge, the one who, acting on orders from Abel, banished me from the settlement of Bran.

I walk back to Abel’s house. I am surprised at my feelings when I saw the judge. He is not someone I have blamed before for sending me away and I don’t know what I would have done if I had caught him.

But I am pleased nonetheless. I have seen someone from the past, someone whose name I know and not just dimly recognise. He is here.

And I am certain he recognised me. For now, that is enough.

Limping slightly I move off to sit in the shade of the wall near Abel’s house. There is a bench and I sit and wait for him to come home, or to leave it.

But nothing happens. Nothing at all. The street is quiet. When people pass sometimes they look at me only to look away quickly. It is fleeting but I do not imagine this. Sometimes they do not seem to notice me at all. A few children run after each other. Mostly there are no people in the street at all. More significantly, there is no movement in the house, or none that I can notice. The curtain does not twitch, the door does not open. I sit in the shade with my head resting against the wall. A fly settles on my forehead and I brush it away. I feel the sun on my face, on my skin, and my eyes close.

Abel. It is a common name in Bran. Its origins are unclear but we tell of two brothers at the beginning of time. Abel is murdered by his brother. He is the victim of the first evil. Why we would name our children after victims I have never understood. The tale tells of a man who takes his brother into a field. The man is jealous of his younger brother. Of what precisely he does not know. Of the fact that he is younger. He waits till his back is turned, picks up a stone. As he does the act, striking blow after blow, crows rise as one from the field, startled. Hundreds of them. They don’t make a sound. Or if they do he cannot hear. They blacken the skies above. The red earth stretches from horizon to horizon.

Abel was not a victim.

The judge sits on a raised platform. Behind him is the wall on which, beneath the heading ‘Marshals of Bran’, is inscribed my name and the date ‘Bran, b1’. He begins to speak, ‘Marshal Bran, you are hereby sentenced to exile in perpetuity. You will be given a boat, provisions.

You are to set sail, due east. If you find land before the territory of Axum, then that is where you should stay. If you do not, then you must take your chances in Axum. Under no circumstances are you to return to Bran. If you do you will be executed. The people’s court has decided to spare you the fate that you dealt out with the utmost willingness.

You have shown no remorse for your actions even though it is clear you are alone in pursuing the policies. You will never be forgiven by this town for we hereby expunge you.’ He folds his hands in front of him, leans slightly forward. ‘You were once a warrior, once a man with vision. Now…’ He pauses, and leans back. ‘Now, do not come back.’

With that he waves his hands and soldiers come and take me by the arms, quite gently, and lead me back to the cell. The court is silent. I turn to look over my shoulder. Abel is standing in the gallery. He is shaking the hands of the men next to him. He will not meet my eye.

Tora is not there. The next time I see her is my last day in the town for ten years.

I am woken by a hand on my shoulder. I look up, still half asleep. The sun is behind her face. A yellow glow comes from her hair. At first I think it is my lover. I sit up straight. It is not. It is Elba.

‘Good morning,’ she says. I have not slept for long.

‘Yes. Hello.’ I am still a bit confused.

‘You’re enjoying the sun?’