What I have always hidden from my children troubles me in these, my last hours. I have long since been certain that what I have told them about their mother and the way in which she left our lives is the only truth that they perceive, and that they have no reason to doubt me. Even so, I am suddenly moved to question my decision.

It was the long hot summer of 1976 when I lost her, when our Lottie was three and her brother Peter was only eighteen months old. Her work often kept her on campus long after I had left. The real beauty of my life as a mathematics fellow is that I have always been able to work anywhere, and so I could easily be present in our children’s lives where her requirement for laboratories made a very different impact on her time at home. I still remember the first night that she returned home, somewhat in a daze, her sentences filled with mentions of someone called Alec.

It took two gin and tonics and the dinner I had kept warm for her before I was able to decode that Alec was a new colleague.

As Horace moved the blade back and forth in a gentle circular motion over the oiled stone he allowed his thoughts to drift to happier places and kinder times, trying to push from his mind that the morning would bring naught but blood and death.

Unlike many of the men under his command he was no longer enamoured of war. A lifetime of killing the enemies of Rome had left him more than jaded, it had genuinely damaged him. He had not seen his wife and sons for nearly two years, and the last time he had been free to spend time with them he had felt no peace whatsoever, constantly haunted by the faces of men with whom he had held no real quarrel and yet he had put them to the sword without a second thought.

It was of no comfort, even, that they would have just as soon run him through if he had not fought with all the fury and cruelty that he could muster. In the heat of war it was not hard to simply survive, but the ghosts that followed him around in the quiet between battles were starting to weigh heavily upon him.

The house band was playing a rather dirgey tango as Tito walked into the hotel bar. A handful of couples were dancing, most of them American tourists gamefully attempting to tango rather than pulling it off, while most of the tables were occupied by local business men and their Friday night girls.

He made for the bar, cutting a swathe through the lazy clouds of cigarette smoke, feeling his heart quicken to the beat of the music, memories of dancing with Connie swirling around his mind, distracting him from his purpose.

He took a seat at the bar and nodded at the barman, who recognised him and moments later placed a mojito in front of him before gliding away to serve drinks for an impatient looking waitress. He stirred the drink lazily and waited; Sanderson was late, as ever.

He turned on the stool and placed his back against the bar, scanning the room for DIPA, sadly they were easy to spot. Satisfied that there were no faces he recognised, and no suspect new ones, he turned his attention back to his cocktail.

It felt odd to be there, even though he had often frequented churches in his childhood. Paul was sitting near to the back of the nave, trying to keep a low profile without seeming reticent. This was his first attempt at passing in the Cathedral, and he was conscious of the intelligence that he had received concerning one of the Canons and his ability to spot Keystone members.

Suddenly cued by an unseen nod or gesture the organist tailed off the soft incidental theme he had been playing as the congregation filed into the pews and then struck up a vibrant and powerful piece that Paul did not recognise as the choir entered the church.

The pomp and circumstance of the Anglican High Church no longer held any mystery for Paul, particularly after an assignment in South America the year before, but he did notice that having experienced Catholic congregations had fitted him well for the trick of seeming involved whilst actually observing. Finding those who were ripe for intervention amongst the worshippers was his goal.

“What happens now?”

The young boy that I had known only for a short time, but whose face I already knew I would never forget, had the beginnings of tears in his eyes as he interrogated me.

“I mean will I have to go into a home or somethin’? I don’t to, I want to go home.”

I smiled, trying to reassure him and buy myself some time while I framed the most honest and yet kind response to his entreaty;

“The thing is, under the circumstances you are going to need an adult or two in your life. Do you have any grandparents?”

His eyes lit up, suddenly there was hope;

“Well, you know that my real Dad died in Iraq?”

I nodded,

“His mum, my real gran, is still alive. I haven’t seen her for about six years, and I don’t know where she is, but Mum told me only last week that she’d had a letter from her, with money in it for me, to hold until my birthday.”

I nodded again;

“Do you know her full name? We will probably be able to trace her anyway, but it may help.”

He pondered for a moment, then;

“I’m pretty sure it’s Fenella Cartwright.”

“I hate to say it, but it feels like earthquake weather.”

The groans around the bar were quite audible. It was not like we hadn’t heard Harry’s crazy predicitons before, but then he never let us forget that he’d been right in ’89.

He sauntered over to the bar, and laid down five bucks, as always. I fetched him a Bud and a shot and went back to cleaning glasses. Everyone else went back to their conversations, newspapers and so forth; everyone except for the woman sitting at the other end of the bar. She was clearly not local; the look on her face when Harry so glibly referenced earthquakes was enough to tell that.

I wandered down the bar to ask her if she needed another drink. As I approached she looked up, quite startled;

“Is there really a kind of weather that makes earthquakes more likely? I mean that old guy said it was ‘earthquake weather’ and then everyone just went back to their business, as though it was the most natural thing in the world.”

I chuckled and put the glass I was polishing on the countertop.

Yet again the train was just sitting at a station between Reading and London. The PA carried the familiar grey monotone of an employee with all of the microphone technique of Napalm Death;

“We apologise to passengers for the delay to this service, which is due to unforseen circumstances on the track between Ealing Broadway and London Paddington. We hope to have you on your way as soon as possible, and once again thank you for your patience.”

Not a single person sitting on that train with me had any doubt what “unforseen circumstances” meant. Since the US had bombed Tehran in 2014 Britain has become one of the major targets of Islamic extremist terrorism, but then that would be because it was no secret that we let the American Air Force refuel, use our airspace unhindered and on top of that everyone simply assumed that British aircraft were involved. The war had been short and brutal, no doubt that ‘The Allies’ had won, but the aftermath? Well, I was glad to be late for work; better than being on a train bomb.

The night is cold and dark here, alone. I lie under the stars, by virtue of a skylight, and all I seem to be able to do is stare up at them and count them one by one. No matter how hard I try to sleep, nothing but more wakefulness comes.

At first I thought that it was sleeping alone that drove me so far from the arms of Morpheus, but last night there was someone in my bed with me and I passed the night watching her sleep, and then dozing for a couple of hours before dawn when I could finally close my eyes. You might wonder if it is more specifically being without a certain someone in my bed, but seeing as last night was a one-off return match with ‘the one that got away’ I am not sure that she really is the cause of my insomnia.

It does not seem likely that I am anxious about work; all is well, and I am financially secure.

No, having examined all of the other possibilites I can only conclude that I cannot sleep on account of some latent guilt, or perhaps just the fear of being caught. Murder is so stressful.

“Mr. Jefferies, I’m afraid I have some bad news.”

Peter’s shoulders slumped, he seemed to be able to sense the weight of what was coming. After a moment he simply nodded.

“Well, the thing is that as I said I have some bad news. There has been an accident, and I am sorry to have to tell you that your wife and daughter have been killed, Sir.”

Peter made no sound as his entire body started to shake; his entire frame exhibited wave after wave of tremors, each moment the amplitude growing and then subsiding. As the convulsion reached its height it seemed to me that he was about to scream out, keening for his family, but each time he swallowed his grief down and the shaking would subside for a moment or two and then start again.

I wanted to reach out and put my hand on his shoulder, or say something, but confronted with my brother’s grief like this I was suddenly powerless, speechless, and I realised that I had no idea how to reach anyone, let alone him, who was in that much grief. I sat beside him, confused and lost.