‘Yes, I do.’

He sighed and rubbed his forehead with his cracked pigskin glove. ‘It wasn’t as I would have wished it. It never is. Please believe this.’ He raised his hand in the vague direction of the Linggu Temple. ‘It is true that – that he enjoyed it. He always does. But I don’t. I watch them. I make films of what they do, but I take no pleasure from it. Please trust me in this, I take no pleasure.’

I wiped my face with my sleeve, pushing away the tears. I stepped forward and put a trembling hand on his shoulder. He didn’t flinch – he stood his ground, searching my face, puzzled. There was no fear in his expression: he thought of me as a defenceless civilian. He knew nothing about the small fruit knife hidden in my hand.

‘Give me the camera,’ I said.

‘I can’t. Don’t believe I make these films for their recreation, for the soldiers. I have far greater intentions than that.’

‘Give me the camera.’

He shook his head. ‘Absolutely not.’

With those words the world around us seemed to me to slow down abruptly. Somewhere on the distant slopes below, the Japanese sampohei artillery were laying down heavy mortar fire, chasing renegade Nationalist units off the mountains, rounding them up and forcing them back down to the city, but up on the higher slopes I was aware of no sound at all, save the thudding of our hearts, the ice melting in the trees around us.

‘I said give me the camera.’

‘And I repeat no. Absolutely not.’

I opened my mouth then, canted forward a little and released a howl directly into his mouth. It had been building in me all the time I’d been chasing him through the snow, and now I screamed, like a wounded animal. I lunged, twisting the little knife into him, through the khaki uniform, grinding through the lucky senninbari belt.