You got here at last, he said. These are your things. I’ve kept them for you.

My things? you said. You inspected the rucksack. It didn’t look familiar. What did he mean by things? A toothbrush, underwear?

Things you saved up, he said. For this occasion.

You lifted the rucksack. It was very light. You wondered if there was a sandwich in it. You weren’t hungry, but you might be later. You examined the door. There were no windows in it. There was no lock.

I’m supposed to go in here? you said.

I have to ask you some questions first, he said. Think carefully before you answer.

All right, you said. You had an idea about the questions: you’d be asked to give a good account of yourself, and to admit to your misdeeds, such as they were. You thought you were ready. You hadn’t been perfect, but then, perfection wouldn’t be expected. Surely not, or who would ever get in?

Here are the questions, he said. What is your favourite colour? Did you love your cat? Did you ever find a coin on the pavement? Were you happy?

Suddenly it’s the present tense. The first question baffles you. Do you have a favourite colour or not? You can’t remember. Everything you’ve been meaning to say in your own defence has gone right out of your head. Now a wind has begun to blow: ripped posters whirl along the street, open mouths, hands, eyes. Perhaps you should open the rucksack. You never had a cat. What do coins have to do with it? There must be some mistake.

BOTTLE II

Bring your ear down closer. Put your hand over the other ear. Think of seashells. There. Now you can hear me.

It must be a surprise for you, the discovery that there’s a voice inside this bottle. You thought you were buying a curio, which is what most people would call a round-bodied glass object, ornate, dusty, out of date, filled with layers of coloured sand, purple-pink-orange-green-beige. A sort of ornament. A sort of souvenir, from a place you haven’t in fact ever visited.