It is an alternative history. The true one is a curious footnote to the Massacre of the Sixty—and because I am known to have survived, my testimony of imprisonment is discreetly disbelieved by British historians—but I was there. After the car journey, my captors walked me in through the stark and businesslike gate and closed the door on my protestations. All night, I listened to the cresting and crashing of absolute fear in sixty men and women, and the next morning I watched them begin to die. I drew their faces on my walls, scratching faint cartoonish sketches with a stub of pencil, but when I looked at what I had made I realised it was the beginning of a new artwork. My portraits were coming from that obscure place inside me where I saw the certain universe of Anaximander of Miletos and knew it for a profound truth of alien science, and where the gods and demons of classical Greece were scrimshawed on the plastic toaster ovens and Apollo rockets of the dawning Age of Aquarius.