“How shall we sing the Lord’s song in a strange land?/ If I forget thee, O Jerusalem, let my right hand forget her cunning. If I do not remember thee, let my tongue cleave to the roof of my mouth; if I prefer not Jerusalem above my chief joy.” Psalm 137

One

Every morning I get up; put on my shorts and an old t-shirt, and go out for a run; even today on Christmas Eve when it is cold and icy outside, I do the same, without even a shudder or a shiver. When I first came here I was told to try to remain fit and healthy, that it was my duty to do so; therefore I am careful what I eat, rarely devouring the sweet pastries that I so enjoy and limiting myself to only four squares a day of the delicious English chocolate that I have so grown to love, and every morning I am out of the door and pounding these Nottingham streets.

I was already starting to jog as I left the bedroom and ran down the stairs and, not forgetting the front door key, out of the house. I tend to think that I know nobody here, but in fact many of the local know me by sight, and by the time that I had got to the canal four people have shouted hello or waved to me and I even got a “Merry Christmas” and a grin from a young woman who was also out for a run. Sometimes when out and about in the city  will hear someone will say “had your run this morning?” and whilst I understand that I am supposed to keep a low profile I cannot help but be flattered that they recognise me.

As usual I ran for an hour; I have four different routes that I have worked out over the years, the one today is straight along the canal to Beeston Marina where I stood by a bench regaining my breath and gazing at the barges, at least forty of them moored along the quayside, a couple of them clearly inhabited as they had steam coming from their chimneys. And then I ran back the way I had come, feeling a certain virtuousness that I had done this strenuous run when so many others were still in bed.

Once home I had a bran bagel and a strong black coffee before retiring to the study for my only vice a cigarette, I will usually only have one in the morning, or if I have had a particularly stressful day one in the evening. Once I had sucked every last moment of pleasure from my cigarette, I flushed the butt down the toilet and thoroughly scrubbed the plate I had used as an ashtray, and then sprayed upstairs with my favourite type of air-freshener. I did not know how often They came into my house whilst I was out, but by the odd displacement of my possessions and even the occasional note they left, I knew that they were there quite regularly and I suspected they would not be happy with my smoking, and it was never a bad thing to be careful, to cover one’s tracks.

It was a Saturday and so I had to collect my money and then do the shopping. Each week I was given a different place to drop off the car; usually somewhere in the city, but not too close to where I lived, but on occasion further afield, Sherwood Forest or Derby and once I was sent all the way down to Leicester, I had no idea what governed the choice of place I was sent to, just as so much of the rest of my life was also a mystery, perhaps it was a caprice or humour from my unseen Masters, or a gentle reminder as to who was in control.

Today I drove around the city to Woollaton Hall, and parked in the large car park and being careful not to look behind, I walked up to the large house and buying a ticket, had a look at various stuffed animals and some second rate pictures from the Nineteenth Century. I appeared to be the only visitor at this early hour, and had been surprised that the hall was open at all. I was supposed to give Them an hour and as my look around the hall had taken me less than half that time, I made my way down to the lake on the other side of the hall, shivering in the cold air, and I did a full circuit, enjoying the feel of the cold and from somewhere nearby, the smell of a bonfire . I saw a couple of old men walking dogs and gave them a comradely salute.

Once back to my car, I noticed a shopping bag in the back seat, but did not check it until I was out of the area and then I parked on the side of the road and opened the bag; there was a pile of bank notes; enough for my needs for the week, plus several sheets of paper with instructions. When I first arrived I often wondered what would happen if the money did not arrive, there was a number I should ring in an emergency, but I was proud to say that I had never had to ring it, and over the years the money had always appeared in the car and I had given up worrying about it.

I drove to Sainsbury and with some of the cash I did my weekly shop. It was busy but despite the crowds I noticed a woman, probably a year or two younger than me, pushing a trolley and, almost unconsciously I started to follow her; she was wearing a full length green skirt, a donkey jacket and had dark hair. It was only after she had left the shop, giving me a curious look as she did so, that I realised that she was the double of Alice.

Alice had appeared one afternoon; I had been sent to Mansfield for the day to do some tidying up, and when I came back realised immediately that I was not alone. As I walked upstairs, gun at the ready, she came out of the bathroom, similarly armed and after she had explained that she had come from Them; shook my hand, and then went into the other bedroom and shut the door behind her, later I heard her going the stairs and making herself something to eat. She never told me her name, where she had come from or how long she was staying, but then perhaps she did not know.

We rarely talked, but sometimes in the evening when I was watching television (sport, my choice or news documentaries, Theirs) she would come down and sit with me and I would make us both coffee and toast, but even then we rarely spoke, although the intimacy was surprisingly lovely, and I felt sad on the evenings when she chose to stay in her room, and perhaps for the first time realised my loneliness.

One night she came into my room naked, but afterwards she went back to her room and this would happen once or twice a week. Occasionally she would fall asleep in my arms, and I would hear her cry out in her sleep and would kiss her softly, and I would feel her warmth against me. One night as we held each other I cried out “Alice” in my ecstasy.

“Who is Alice?”

“It is what I call you.”

“Oh.”

I hoped after that she would tell me her real name, but she just laughed and kissed me.

She too went out every day, presumably on similar errands to myself, and she too had a typewriter and I often heard her clacking away in the early evening. I had noticed books in her room, some in English and others in a language that I did not recognise, even the letters were alien to me. When she first arrived I had hoped that we would be able to talk in the old language, but the one time I tried it she frowned at me and I did not try it again.

And then one day she had gone. I returned from a trip into the city centre and her room was empty, her books, clothes and toiletries, as if they had never been; I searched everywhere in the hope that there would be something left behind to show that it was not all a dream, or that perhaps she had left me a token but there was nothing. How long ago was it? Years maybe, I cannot remember, but I still think about her and by then had only just stopped believing that she might return so that I can feed her toast and jam and feel the wave of excitement when she came into my room and drew back the duvet and lay down next to me.

Two

Shopping done I returned home. I was rarely sent out on trips over the weekend, but I had letters to write to several newspapers and other organisations, all of which had been listed in my instructions, which I had now hidden under the mattress of the spare bed. I took the cover off his typewriter and started on a letter to the editor of the Daily Telegraph.

The letters I was told to write were on a variety of subjects, some about politics, which was not surprising, but others were about domestic things; Premium Bonds, the cost of dog licenses, and Royal Weddings. I would be told the subject, but as I had been a writer in his previous life and I was allowed to write them in my own style, although using a variety of names. Sometimes I wondered if they were a type of code for others like myself, but mostly I just did what I was supposed to, without thinking about it, and I rarely checked whether the letters had been published or not, unless the letter was in The Times, the newspaper I was to buy and study every day.

After lunching on soup and horrible English bread I went upstairs and had a sleep, a luxury I allowed myself over the weekend. As so often I awoke in confusion, there had been a woman kissing me and I could see a hill; grey in the cold and a painting of a dock with men in boats. I assumed that they were memories from my previous life, a life that had slowly faded away. Still feeling odd I rinsed my face and went downstairs to make coffee.

There are two photographs in the front room on the mantelpiece; one of a young woman dressed in white with a brown jacket, whilst the other is a group of three children, two boys and a girl, presumably brothers and sister, all of whom looked a little frightened and gaze intently at the viewer. The photographs had been there when I had arrived, and over the years a few more had appeared dotted about the house, they were possibly of the same people, having grown older, it was difficult to tell. At first I had barely glanced at them, but over time I had begun to wonder who they were; had they been found in a junk shop or market stall, or perhaps they belonged to one of Them, I did not think they were of anyone I knew, but could not be certain.

After Alice disappeared, I often gazed at the picture of the young woman, she looked seductive with large breasts and a demur look, I suspected that by now she would be plump and matronly, and that seductive smile would have been replaced by good humour and comradeship. I wondered what she was doing now; perhaps she was married to one of Them, or was living a life similar to mine, unaware that someone continually studied her photograph, like an icon or a work of art.

After my sleep I wrote some more letters; to the National Trust, the RSPCA, The Labour Party and to Marks and Spencer’s. I had a plentiful supply of stamps and by the time I was ready to make dinner the letters were all typed and in their envelopes, ready to be posted the day after Boxing Day. The typewriter was a new one, my original one from home had come with me, but a few months earlier it disappeared and this was in its place; sharper and clearer but the old one was a link to the past, and I had mourned it like the loss of a brother or a friend.

Three

I usually stayed in during the evenings; listened to the various news programmes on the BBC and ITV, but that night I felt lonesome and needed to get out, so I went out for walk. It was cold and despite that I was wearing a thick coat and woollen gloves I shivered. I recognised a few faces from the area also out, perhaps visiting friends or lovers.

I saw Mrs Lawrence who worked at the corner shop where I bought my newspaper and chocolat; we stopped and talked for a few moments.

“Are you doing anything special for Christmas Mr Amos?”

“No, my children are faraway, I will just have a quiet day.”

“Oh Mr Amos, you are welcome to pop around; it will be just me and my husband and our Donna might be there. You would be very welcome. Don’t bring anything we are full to bursting with food.”

“Thank you” I said, and for a moment I would like to have hugged this kindly woman, held her tight, but instead I wished her a Happy Christmas and said I would bear her invitation in mind. I was tempted, but it was impossible, quite impossible.

And then I saw a church, I had seen it many times before and on a Sunday morning I could hear her bells as I got ready for my run. This evening there were people going in and, on an impulse, I followed them. I had never been in a church before, except for those large cathedrals in Lincoln and Southwell where my work had occasionally taken me, but this was quite different and I wondered why I was going inside, and even as I came into the warmth I was tempted to turn around and hurry back home.

A young lady wished me a Merry Christmas and handed me a sheet with the words of some Carols written on and told me to sit wherever I wanted. I knew that many years ago people paid for their seats in church and was glad that this was no longer the case. I found a seat near the back, and some teenage girls sat nearby and looked at me and giggled, and I smiled back. There were songs and readings from the Bible and at one point we were told to stand up and greet the people nearby, and I shook hands with the teenagers.

“Pleased to me you” I said formally, but with a smile, they all giggled again, but one girl kissed me lightly on the cheek.

Afterwards we were invited to have mince pies and tea in a hall next door and moved by the same impulse that had led me into the church I followed the congregation into a rather stuffy that smelt of stale tea, and sat down at a table.

“I have not seen you before” said the man who lead the service, presumably the vicar.

“No, I saw the people and it is Christmas….”

He smiled understandingly

“My name is James” he told me, and we shook hands, “I am glad you came here tonight.”

“Thank you.”

We munched on our mince pies, and I had an urge to talk to him, tell him of the darkness in my soul and of Them who watched over me, but who were not as benign as the Christian God, but were just as all-powerful.  But then an elderly lady came over,

“Sorry to interrupt,” she told me, “here you are vicar, sorry James” and she handed him a present, and whilst he thanked her, I left the hall and went home.

That night I lay there in bed, sometimes I regret my life, the pretence and the lies, and the killing, particularly that; the dead bodies, young and old, men and women haunt me continually.  I have given up asking if it is worth it, if my contribution will bring about a better world and if it will be remembered, I am too intertwined with it all, and deep down I know it will never end, that I will die in this lonely house, another operative gone. And at my funeral there will be two men in dark suits, watching intently and mouthing the prayers without sincerity or love.

And then in my head, I heard a hymn from earlier, and in quavering tones I began to sing.

 “O come, O come, Emmanuel/ And ransom captive Israel/ That mourns in lonely exile here.”

And then I slept.