‘More?’

I have brought my bag with me. In it I have placed the jacket and the letter. I have left the portrait in the shelter.

‘I told your assistant about these,’ gesturing in the direction of Jura and placing the items on the table.

Abel takes the letter and reads it. The smile disappears again.

‘An item of clothing and a letter you could have written yourself.

Hardly proof.’

‘It is not my handwriting. I found it in your house.’

‘So you say.’

‘We both know who wrote it. Why would I make this up?’

He does not answer but says instead, ‘You have broken into a lot of places. You must think us a very lenient people. Perhaps you think us lazy. Slow. Dog-people.’

I stare at him. ‘I have found my portrait as well.’

For a moment he looks almost startled. ‘Portrait?’

‘My portrait. A portrait painted when I was younger, when I was the Marshal.’

‘When you were the Marshal.’ My old friend appears to have adopted the habit of repeating what I say. Perhaps it gives him time to think. ‘A portrait of you?’

‘Yes.’

‘That is strange. Where did you find it? Was it in the hut in the orchard?’

I stare at Abel wondering if that is another joke. ‘Where I found it is of no concern. The fact that it exists is what is of concern, what should be of concern to you.’

‘And what does it look like, this portrait?’

I do my best to suppress a smile. ‘Why, like me of course. Only younger.’

‘I mean,’ says Abel – I have unsettled him – ‘I mean, how were you portrayed? What was the pose? What was the condition of the painting? Tell me more about this painting of you.’

‘I am in uniform. Three-quarter profile. Though the colours are faded you can see that I am portrayed as a leader.’

‘Faded?’

‘Yes, it was painted a long time ago but that is of no concern. It is in reasonable condition.’

‘And you’re sure it’s you?’

‘Of course I am sure. It is me, clear as daylight. There is an inscription under the portrait. True, that is faded more than the painting but a closer look would reveal a name, my name.’

‘What makes you certain? You say it looks like you but is it you?

Was it you? When was it painted would you say?’

‘Fifteen, maybe twenty years ago. Not long enough for your argument to be valid. It was the portrait that used to hang above my desk – your desk now. There is still a darker patch where it was hung.

Perhaps you had it replaced with one of yourself. You accused me of vanity.’

He waves this away. ‘But still, a long time. Long enough for appearances to change.’

‘For the painting to change? Paintings do not change. That is why they are commissioned.’

‘Exactly. But you have changed, no doubt. You looked one way once and now you look another perhaps. You say you lived on an island. Did you have a mirror? Have you seen yourself recently?

Would you recognise yourself? You can show me the painting. You can say here I am. See me. You can see it is me. And yet how can I see it is you? How can I who do not know you see that a twenty-year-old faded painting is you as a younger man? I do not know you. You say you know yourself but I do not know that, that has not been proven to me. The painting is not your proof. You must look elsewhere and find other proof.’

I bang the table. I shout at him. ‘You may despise me, Marshal Abel! You may despise me but you cannot deny me. You especially. You betrayed me. Twice. You banished me. I stayed away for years. And I survived. You were hoping I wouldn’t. I survived. I lived. I thought.

Ten years alone with only memories. Memories like ghosts. Ghosts everywhere.’ I stop myself.

‘Then I come here at great danger to myself. Not only the voyage but just by being here I risk death. I bring a man to you, a man whose presence means danger to the settlement you stole from me and you deny everything. You offer nothing.’

I open my mouth to continue but before I can, Abel asks softly,

‘What do you want from us?’

I get up quickly from the table.

‘I want…’ I breathe in quickly. I do not look at Elba who is staring at me. ‘I want a retrial. I want to be judged again in the light of the current events and those of the previous ten years. I do not want revenge on you. I do not want to be Marshal again. I do not seek to accuse you once more of participating in the murders for which you held me accountable. I want my legacy re-evaluated, my crimes recognised for what they truly were and my efforts in bringing an enemy General to the settlement authorities at great personal risk to myself noted. I want to be allowed to live among my people, the people I helped create.

Failing that, give me an end. Death, at least, brings redemption. Don’t deny me an end.’

There is silence.

‘I want to know what has happened to my friends and colleagues.

I want to know if Tora is still alive, the woman I loved.’ I look at Elba but she is still staring at the table.

‘Whether or not she loved me well enough, I still want to know what has become of her. And…’ Here I pause and feel my voice tremble slightly. ‘And I want the executed to be remembered. There is no monument to their sacrifice. The hundreds we had to kill, they should be remembered too. There were nine hundred and seventeen of them, Abel. Nine hundred and seventeen. Forgive me, please. I have to be forgiven. Please. They come to me at night. I cannot shake them. When I shut my eyes I see them. When I open my eyes they hide behind trees, on cliff tops, in the shadows. Every moment I see their faces, some of them. Others just blank. Skin. I have searched and searched for the names but I cannot. I cannot. Please.’

Abel’s jaw is set in a firm line. ‘You want to be re-judged? How can one be re-judged? One judgement is enough, surely? A judgement determines right or wrong. If the judgement was incorrect there would be no judgement in the first place. You cannot be re-judged. You ask the impossible.’

I am quiet for a while. ‘Do you admit you know who I am? Do you admit ten years ago a trial was held in this very room at which the citizens of this town banished me for life to the far corners of Bran territory?’

‘I admit no such thing at all. Nothing. There was nothing.’

‘Nothing? But look what has come of nothing,’ I say, pointing to myself. I am shouting again now. ‘Somehow I have appeared from nowhere, no one will admit to having known me and yet I know so much about this town. Of course you recognise me. I can see it in your eyes. You are just afraid to admit it. You are afraid of what that might mean for the paradise you have built. The paradise you have built on the bones of the dead.’

I am out of breath now. ‘In spite of your best efforts I have gathered proof of my past, the most obvious being a portrait of me. You refuse to admit it for fear that you might have missed something, for fear that the past you buried has resurfaced. I come here, searching for the forgiveness I cannot live without,’ again my voice trembles but I plough on, ‘yet you will not look me in the eye and allow me to explain, allow me to say what it is I need to say.’

‘You have told your story, old man. You have taken up much of my time, much of our time, telling your story. We have given you charity and friendship but it is not enough for you. We have given you shelter and food but it is not enough. We have allowed you to be part of the present and the future of this town but that too is not enough. Instead you must have forgiveness as well. For what? For the story of your past? A past that implicates this town? Forgive you? Why would we forgive you if it makes us guilty? You have not accounted for that, have you? And indeed, how can we forgive you if we do not know who you are? Not knowing who you are we cannot forgive you for the crimes of which you say you and all of us are guilty.’ Abel’s voice has risen.