Tell me why no one claims to recognise me. Tell me why no one will acknowledge me.’ I am bending slightly, as if about to kneel.

‘Tell me what game is being played. Why are you all pretending not to know me?’

She does not answer.

‘I will not let this go. I could slip back into life here, settle down, maybe even with you.’ She does not look up. ‘But I cannot do that yet. I mean to find out what has happened to this town since I left, what has happened to Abel, to Tora. It is for your good. Our good. How can you progress if you do not remember?’

She looks at me now, more composed. ‘Why do you presume to know what is in our best interests? You turn up here out of the blue, the dust of the mountains on your coat, a strange old-fashioned way of talking and you claim to have been Marshal here, to have started this settlement even. You have all these stories. I am not afraid of you. I put your eccentricities down to, well, an eccentric nature, which, it is true, this town lacks. We have solid burghers who go about their business but no one who loves telling stories. That is what I like about you. But you go on so. Can you not admit defeat, say you are wrong, say that during these ten years you say you were away, something happened to you that you cannot remember, something that changed who you are? You say you were banished but is it not possible you are simply a sailor who got lost, who came close to drowning in a shipwreck and when he woke up, though sane in every other way, believed that he was once a warrior, once a great man, once a killer?’ She stops, slightly out of breath.

‘Bran – you even have a name that may as well be made up. The same as the town. Are you a foundling? Perhaps you were brought here, devoid of all memories and stories, kept to the shadows and waited until a story weaved its way into you, until you knew who you were. Bran, the townsman. Man of the town. You say we are the ones deliberately forgetting you, wiping you out but can you really be sure it is not you who is making all this up? Are you certain the story you tell is true?’

‘Now you are being ridiculous,’ I say.

‘Yes. Perhaps.’ She pauses. ‘But you cannot reasonably explain why a whole town would have conspired to cover up the existence of two men, a woman and an entire history.’

‘I cannot explain yet why you have chosen this path. That is why I would like your help.’

‘What answer do you want, Bran? What answer is there to give?

You can never know us again.’ She closes her eyes for a second, as if she has said something wrong.

‘You said again. You do know me.’

‘That is not what I meant. I do not know you.’

‘I am Bran, your first Marshal.’

‘I do not know you.’

‘I am Bran.’

She shakes her head. ‘No.’

I give her a push when I loosen my grip and turn away.

‘Perhaps you should go.’

I walk out the door. I do not look back.

I make my way to Abel’s house. I walk through the dark streets.

There are few lights on. It is later than I thought. Moonlight makes shadows from the rooftops. Something moves on the edge of one.

I look up quickly. I can see nothing. I turn full circle. Still nothing.

I think back to the island, the heads staring at me from the top of the cliffs.

When I look down I see him. A figure, I cannot see a face. He presses back into a doorway. I call out. I begin to run up to him. A door opens behind him and he is gone.

I hurl myself at the door. I beat on it with both my hands. I step back and kick.

Mouse people. They keep to the shadows. They run from that which they don’t understand.

This time I have my knife. It slips in easily. I give it a twist and feel the metal give way. It is easily done. The lock is smooth. It is not one that hasn’t been opened for ages. I step into Abel’s house and wait for my eyes to adjust to the gloom. The dust is everywhere. The whole room is grey with it, made greyer by the moonlight.

I hear myself calling out, ‘Hello?’ I do not know whether I expect an answer.

As I become more used to the dark I begin to make out objects, objects I recognise. There on the wall hangs a scabbard that belonged to Abel. I presented it to him after a battle in which he distinguished himself. Behind enemy lines, he led a small party of soldiers back to safety, capturing a watch post along the way. A most noble act in a time when one more defeat could have meant the end for us. I remember him accepting it. He was unsmiling. He looked at me as I handed it over. The expression in his eyes was almost hostile but more likely to have been determination. He was not one for smiles at the best of times.

I sense something has happened in this room. Things are out of place. A drawer is open. Abel was a very ordered man. It was why we worked well together. We were similar in that way. Nothing escaped his attention. For this to be Abel’s house something must have happened.

It is a mess. But it is Abel’s house. With Abel’s belongings.

There on the table a ledger of the type I had produced. I open it.

It is blank save for the inscription, ‘Property of Bran. To be returned to the office of the Marshal of Bran on demand.’ I had asked for that inscription. It meant little in real terms but it was one of the building blocks of the settlement, one of the ways we clawed back the rule of law. As a gesture it meant everything. I close the cover. My fingers leave marks in the dust. I regret the absence of a date in the ledger, which would have given some clue as to the time of Abel’s disappearance and the absence of any handwriting, either mine or Abel’s, which would have helped prove my story.

I go into the kitchen. Here the cupboards are bare, the room empty save for a small table and the chair lying on its side. The bedroom leads off the kitchen. Inside it is almost completely black, the one window with blinds drawn. The only light comes from cracks between the planks. There is a wooden bed frame in the middle of the room and a chest at the foot of the bed. I open the lid. Inside, scrunched in a corner, is a jacket. My heart quickens. I shake it out. It is a military jacket. The insignia have been stripped off but from the number of tears I can tell it belonged to my deputy. I can picture it as it used to be. I look at the front pocket for the name. That too has been ripped off.

The bed is unmade. The sheets are crumpled. I lift them up, shake them out. I hold a blanket to my face. I can smell her. I breathe deeply.

It smells of her. Like the soap on her hands. Like her hair. I lie down.

I sleep as if drugged. When I wake it is getting light. I take the jacket and walk through to the kitchen. There on the floor something catches my eye. Something half hidden under the dresser. A piece of paper folded in half. I open it.

And this is her.

Not just a smell, a scent, something a ghost might leave behind.

It is her handwriting. Though it has been ten years I can tell. I know her. It reads – there are only a few words – ‘Dear Bran, You should understand.’ That line has been crossed out. It continues: ‘There is a chasm between what we have been and what we want to be.’

I turn it over. There is nothing else. It ends there.

I stand and read it again. And again. Each time the words form the same sentences. Each time they end too soon.

I leave the house, emerging into early morning sunlight and close the door behind me. I do not attempt to lock it.

10

I walk over to the Marshal’s office. There is a man at the top of the alleyway I see when I leave the shelter. He is gone by the time I reach the road. I am being kept under surveillance.

I do not knock. Instead I turn the handle. The door is open. I walk up the stairs to the Marshal’s office.

He is sitting at his desk. He looks up as I enter. He does not look surprised to see me.