If you meet me, have some sympathy 13

I hate tents; every time I’m in this world they’ve invented a new one. Just when you’ve figured out tanned horsehides over bamboo you end up with a heap of nylon and assorted metal poles. I was glad no one was watching – the two of us in that field, top of our game but poring helplessly over a crumpled sheet of hieroglyphic instructions.

Eventually we had a passable shelter and I took first watch as the stars came out. Usually I don’t like silence (there’s none in Hell) but it was tolerable here and safer. We were miles from any settlement and Mephisto would have a hard time tracking us.

It was several hours later when I noticed the singing – sad voices drifting through the cold night air. The moon had risen and pale figures hovered over the trees on the horizon.

I turned to wake Theresa but she was already beside me, her hand on my arm. ‘I think they’re from my side,’ she said. ‘I used to understand them.’

‘Used to?’

‘I don’t know when I forgot; it must have been all the killing.’

I saw tears on her cheeks. Like I said, the world gets to you.