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due on Monday.’
    â€˜I doubt if you’ll ever see her again,’ said Kant.
    He was beginning to understand that Lily’s trick was like Collins’. To disappear from view, you had to make your life as transparent as the air you breathed.
    Back in his boarding house room, Kant waited until the other lodgers had retired to bed. He locked the shutters of the windows and made sure the key was turned in his door. He sat on the edge of his bed and stared at the locked door, preoccupied with the tantalising daydream of Merrin’s accidental kiss. He tried not to think about that afternoon and pushed the memory away, but his thoughts kept returning to the softness of her touch.
    His brow furrowed with the burden of remembering what had happened after the kiss, Merrin’s recoil when she realised he was a stranger, the fear knotting her face, the sound of a gun-shot and the rattle of the carriage pulling off at speed. He tried to remember the rest of their journey but his mind floated into emptiness.
    If Kant had been asked to explain how important this gap in his memory was, to express it in terms of time, or recall what exactly had transpired that afternoon, he would have been at a loss to answer. He suspected that even the most gruelling of interrogations in Dublin Castle would not have drawn from him the precise thread of events. The most difficult thing to work out was whether the cab journey had been a dream or not. His body had felt paralysed, his senses numbed, but his eyes must have been wide open, his mind alert and conscious. He was sure of that. He remembered the horses straining at the reins, Merrin scrabbling at the door handle, he leaning back to give her more room, the carriage shaking, the glare of winter light through the window. Had she tried to open the window and climb out? What had she shouted at the driver? He could not remember exactly. It was as if her kiss had blinded him. And he had accepted the darkness like a gift. He did not want to give up the intimacy of that hushed cab, the softness of her lips, the touch of her fingers. He tried to pull his mind away from their first moments together, but his thoughts resisted his best efforts.
    He saw the rest of that afternoon in snapshot pictures, snatches of disconnected conversation, jarring sensations; the way people who haven’t slept for a long time remember an event, unable to force their thoughts to coalesce into a coherent whole. ‘Who sent you?’ He remembered her asking. He didn’t know if he had murmured the truth or only thought it. His lips had moved and he had been unable to resist her interrogation. His hands had wanted to move too, but thankfully, he had been able to stop them, controlling them by tightly gripping his walking-cane. She had asked him about people he did not know. She believed he knew a lot more than he really did. He had tried to reassure her.
    â€˜I know nothing about who it is you are running from, that I swear,’ he said.
    â€˜But if you did know something, you wouldn’t tell. ’
    â€˜I promise you with my life.’
    He remembered her leaning back against the door and removing a leather-bound file from her coat. She clutched it to her chest.
    He had wanted to tell her more, but was worried how she might react. He had been afraid to move or stir in any way. The carriage felt as though it was gaining in speed. Was the driver picking up the pace because they were being chased through the streets?
    â€˜I’ve spent too long carrying these secrets,’ she’d said. ‘Do you know why I stole the file?’
    â€˜Not at all.’
    â€˜Then you must hold onto it for me.’
    These were the last words, the final image he could recall of her. He forced himself to remember more. He ransacked his mind but failed to summon anything further. His eyes were wide open in the cab and the file was in his hands, but she was no longer there.
    He leaned back on his bed