The shutters of Kami’s little bedroom were casting long shadows across the room. I looked at my watch. It was almost 5 p.m. Kami had talked through the whole day and he was now so wiped out he could barely keep his eyes open. I was also exhausted but I felt no need of a rest; in fact I would have listened to Kami for days on end if he could have continued. The whole story had been shocking, not least because of the totally unflattering portrait it painted of Alex Brennan, a man I had admired on the occasions I had seen him interviewed on TV. Above all, there was a vitality to Kami’s telling of the tale, an urgency, a total lack of self pity that was quite amazing. ‘Don’t cry,’ he had told me several times during the story, ‘There is no time for crying.’ Dawa entered the room. ‘Better you let him sleep now,’ he said. He had looked after us kindly during the long hours, bringing us lentils and rice and tea. I gently unfolded my fingers from Kami’s hand, and picked up the tray of empty dishes and tea cups.
