It will bear witness when they finally get him –  when they beat him up and slap him down, those yobs in the shadows of an alley – it will say what he no longer can, and pay his final debts. It may even provide salvation of sorts, and ensure his immortal legacy - in this world, if not the next.

He realises, as he struggles to read back what he has written, that it is getting dark, that the streets outside are silent apart from the occasional lonely car, and the dog barking in the distance. That he is an old man beginning to write the letter of his life in the failing light, in the quiet dignity of the bare room, where plastic wallpaper peels up from the painted skirting in scrolls. A timeless pose, something to be brushed on paper, preserved in paint. An image of quiet dignity himself.  He is suddenly furious with his preposterous posturing - he is no fire fighter trapped in a burning building, calling out to his wife that he loves her, he is no family man on a crashing commercial jet bidding a tearful farewell to toothy kids called Sport and Scout, he is no military hero telling his men it was an honour to serve with them amidst the sound of sniper fire – he despises his pretension, rejects the inevitable pity they will feel for him when they find him.