The Sec had moved across the maps, as inexorably as it had moved across the consciousness of those who knew its painted red cross.  At one time, it had been a sentimental place of sanctuary, a faithful old monk immersed in silence, stubborn in its integrity to the faithful and the lost.  Now, its name was uttered in black humour.  "You'll end up in the Sec".  A tired, whitewashed building, clad in corrugated iron across almost an entire side; bomb damaged, delicate, just another worn-out casualty laid out in the landscape, with one blinking eye still open, a red cross, a bloody blinking eye.