He never really knew whether it was him she was with when he entered her. At first it would appear the perfect lost path to take. Her satisfaction would turn to lust. And then from lust to fantasy. A few seconds later she would open her eyes and look at him. Then he knew that, on that night, he was only one of many.

That he could see so quickly into her intimate deception made him part ways with Catherine. Selfishly he would seek his own pleasure. For now she was not the woman he had gone to bed with some time before. Two other people, strangers, made love in their place, while they themselves voyeuristically looked on, vaguely urging them to passion.

Her affection afterwards would return with a hazy apprehension of defeat. He knew he had adopted a role. It was not the only role he was playing at the time. There was the public persona he adopted when he took to the streets. For the first few weeks he had barely ventured outside the house, and Catherine would bring home what food they needed. Mostly they phoned for Chinese takeaways or pizzas to be delivered. It was her that always answered the door. This life began to make him feel worthless. Mood swings took him from despair to an evangelical wish to be a friend of the unknown people he saw walking the streets below the windows. He soon tired of sitting alone in the house looking for repeats of TV programmes, or sauntering through the small garden where the rhubarb grew. It was not enough to be cooped up watching the strange streets.

The first day he went shopping he was aware of how blatant his Southern accent was. So he portrayed a nonchalant familiar personality, as if to say: I was the man who was here yesterday, and the day before. Surely you can’t have forgotten me? But, bleary-eyed and extremely polite, the shopkeepers scrutinized him, or else barely registered his presence. Yet he noted their surprise and their embarrassment when he spoke.

To offset this he became a creature of habit.

At ten-thirty he bought a pack of ten Embassy cigarettes in Seymore’s, then wandered into the Pakistani supermarket where he’d stock up with fruit and peas and frozen fish; next he bought lager from the off-licence, then maybe he’d wander through the nicnac shop, and lastly he’d buy a copy of the Belfast Newsletter – the proper Unionist paper – at George’s newsagents. Only one copy of the Catholic newspaper was ever on sale there. And it sat untouched on the counter throughout the day. It was still there in the afternoon when he came to collect the Evening News, which was bought by both religions.

“Don’t be tempted by it,” advised Catherine. “There’s not a soul in this area would be seen dead buying the Irish News.”

“I won’t, don’t worry.”