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Umbrella in one hand, flowers in the other, she found it easily enough in the municipal graveyard, amongst the rows of tombstones, a place put aside for those who had no name. Plot 171, a mound of damp mud, rain trickling over the soil in tiny rivulets the only sign of movement. No flowers, no name. Simply a wooden stake in the ground and the ignominious title: Plot 171. His new identity. She almost smiled. For a moment she stood still, struggling to believe that he really was underneath this anonymous pile of earth then she bunched the stems together and laid the flowers down. Roses, deep dark red, the colour of love, blood and betrayal and lilies, white and scented. Funereal. And dangerous. It was dangerous for her to be here. A woman, on her knees, tending an adjacent grave, glanced across at her curiously and asked her the same question the sextant had. ‘Did you know him then?’ She shook her head. And almost heard the cock crow. Another lie to add to the legion of lies she’d already told. What could one more matter? But somehow, compared to the others, this denial seemed the very worst. To rob him of his identity, to allow him to remain forever unknown, his grave unmarked, his name missing. For ever? Her mouth curved not with a smile but with cynicism, her eyes narrow, feline, cruel. Plot 171. The unknown soldier. She almost choked. But he was dead now and she could do or say nothing in reparation except give him back the dignity of his identity: his name. His past. She stood a moment longer, thinking. Phrases ran through her head. The unknown soldier. Known unto God. She made her decision. That would have to be enough. She turned and walked away, the phrase ringing in her ears. Plot 171. Known unto God.