Ten years on and he lives in the garden shed. He can hear the dog barking rifle shots but he takes it with him on his runs to muzzle him. A dew-white spider web’s a trip wire, grass is hissing warnings but it’s too late to report them. The wind’s whisper is a signal from the sniper on the cliff and that cold-eyed seagull will detonate the myrtle bush that lies in his path as he runs, his body not his body. The sound he makes with his damp feet- splashes will lead to a logjam of sodden corpses in a sluggish river. There will be a moon that says movement behind him in his front yard 6 o’clock. He has a wash in dark soy sauce, rallies for combat, face black. His good ear’s a ringing cup of silence.