A new shape’s appeared in the darkness. I can see the squat outline of a box or a case sitting on the step next to the statue. I hurry down and pick it up.
It’s a document case, a leather box with brass bindings. The cheeks bulge; when I lift it, I can feel the weight inside. My finger traces the Greek letters carved into the ivory handle.
ALEXANDROS.
The man who left the case has almost vanished between two tenements – but there’s a cluster of lights at the end of the alley where votive lamps burn in front of a small shrine. For a moment, he’s silhouetted against the dappled firelight like a monster emerging from its cave. Tall and spindly, long legs and a short tunic.
He turns left and disappears.
I hurry after him – as best I can, with old legs and the case weighing on my arm. Down to the shrine and left, up the hill. It should be dark, but it isn’t: even at night, the city seems to glow with the brightness of its own existence. But if I can see him …
Struggling to keep up, my footsteps ring loud on the pavement. The man ahead looks back and sees me. For another few yards he tries to wish me away, or pretend he hasn’t noticed. Then he checks again, sees the case in my hand and loses all doubt. He breaks into a run.
I can’t go much faster, certainly not carrying the bag. Should I drop it? Even if I did, I probably couldn’t catch him. He’s almost at the top of the hill now, and once he crosses the main road he can disappear into the warren of streets in the old town and be lost for good.
A thin figure in a white tunic sprints past me. He looks familiar, though I can’t see enough to be sure. The man ahead sees him and seems to panic. He hesitates, then ducks down a side street. It’s no escape. By the time I get there, I can hear the thuds and grunts of a bare-knuckle fight in the darkness. The man’s been caught and is wrestling his pursuer on the ground. He breaks free, springs up like a dog. A high wall confines the alley: he gets his arms over the top and kicks to get himself over. I try to grab his legs, but he lashes out and catches me in the face. He’s over the wall and gone. My mouth’s sour with blood and numb with pain, but nothing compared to the fury of letting him escape.
‘Who is he?’
It’s Simeon, picking himself up off the ground and rubbing his shoulder. I told him not to come, but it doesn’t matter now. I need to get over the wall and I can’t do it by myself. I make him crouch against the wall and cup his hands to lift me into the darkness. The bricks are cold and uneven; I half-expect I’ll pull it down with my bare hands if my old arms don’t give out first. I flap and flail like a fish to get myself up.
‘Should I –?’
I’ve made it. I lie on top of the wall for a second, gasping the night air. ‘Hand me the bag.’ It’s the one thing I’ve got; I’m not going to let it go.
Simeon passes it up to me.
‘Now go and find the Watch.’
He nods and runs back down the alley. Clutching the bag, I drop down behind the wall. My knees jar, but nothing breaks.
I’m in a building site. One day it’ll be a well-appointed villa for a court official; at the moment, it’s a maze of low brick walls and shallow ditches barely visible in the darkness. I strain my eyes looking for the fugitive, but there’s nothing.
As far as I can make out, the wall surrounds the entire site, but there must be a gate somewhere. I edge my way around the perimeter, scanning the darkness. The harder I look, the more my eyes adjust, the more complicated the picture becomes. In the dark, every plank or pillar or half-built wall takes on the shape of a man. But if I can get to the gate before he does, I might still catch him.
I follow the wall around a corner and on a little further. My hand trails along the brick, feels a gap, then rough wood, hinges and a hasp. The gate. I push against it, but it doesn’t move. The builders probably locked it from the outside when they left.
He hasn’t got out that way. He might have climbed back over the wall, but not without making a noise. That means he’s still in there, trapped with me like a gladiator in the arena.
And I’ve still got Alexander’s document case weighing me down. I move away from the gate and lay the case in a ditch behind a knee-high wall, scraping loose earth over it. Every sound plays on my imagination, distorted by fear, until I don’t know what I’m hearing. Perhaps I was wrong – perhaps he’s long gone, and come morning I’ll still be squatting here in the mud, alone.
I can’t bear the silence any longer.
‘Are you there?’
No answer. The night swallows my words.
‘Who are you?’
Nothing.
‘Did you kill Alexander?’
I hear a clatter from my right, the noise of scattering pebbles. He must be moving again. I peer cautiously over the wall. The night breeze blows the sound to me; I think I glimpse movement.
On all fours, I crawl along behind the wall. The ground’s pitted with loose stones, which dig into my palms and knees, but I can’t see to avoid them. I come up against a pile of tiles and almost send them flying.
I’m nearly there. I can see the silhouette of his head just above the low parapet, swaying slightly as he glances this way and that. He doesn’t know where I am.
I leap up – and stop, defeated. It’s not a man; it’s a bucket hanging from a rope on a tall scaffold. When the wind blows, the bucket moves; if it goes too far, the gravel inside it rattles. That’s what I heard.
And he knew it. He’s had me all along. Before I can move, he’s there behind me. He grabs an arm and pins it
