I might sleep better when I sleep here, but I don't always sleep well. It's the same old nightmare, a litre of kerosene poured down my throat, a cigarette held to my lips. Marie, at the guillotine, so close I can feel her blood on my face, yet I can still hear her whistling "Scotland the Brave."

I hear the door, and in my dream it's von Linden. I want to die on my feet, a Wallace and a Stuart to the end, even if it's only the blanket I'm struggling with now.