I had no idea why I lied about my name. I had never, ever, not once in all of my sixty-seven years given a false name. Why start? A reflex? I realised with sudden force that now could well be the time to lie about who I was. There was a pretence to maintain. Even on this far-flung rock of an island. I had to remind myself of that. I could be too honest.
My eyes had already taken in his signature on the letter. It was unmistakable even after forty years.
Edwin Banks.
Billy Mackenzie had practised that signature over and over in the days leading up to his departure. I’d watched him do it. He wrote in large childlike alphabet letters, the sort you would expect from a kid in Grade One – I hadn’t liked to ask if he was at best semi-literate, I’d just assumed it watching his cack-handed effor
