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Since the shooting of Fitzduane, he had become obsessive and practiced at every conceivable opportunity. The image of the consequences of being slower than his aspirational optimum stayed with him. A little boy, whose back of the head had been laid open in a crimson line. Fitzduane lying there, soaked in blood as if he had been bathed in it, the light fading from his eyes. He could - he really could - do better. Just in case there was a sudden search. Though the money he had earned was long since gone, the King had advanced food and tobacco against future earnings. But for him, Mac, Larkin and I would be as hungry as the rest of Changi. Summer days reached lazily on into summer nights, stretching orange fingers against the encroaching black, then surrendering with a shrug. In autumn, the light snuck out early, like it was late for something, like it might not be coming back. After lunch, she started to feel uneasy, had a sense that the day was racing away and she was being left behind. Her mother said that she was too young to feel like that, that she had all the time in the world.

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