At five Eddie and the rest of the cast came out. With a sick feeling he wondered what he should do. Then he saw that Eddie was heading straight for the pub he was in.

He heard the door swing open. Now what?

“Jack – you didn’t go back,” he said.

“Not yet.”

“Can I get you a drink?”

“I’ll have something small. A whiskey. I have a train to catch.”

“Look,” Eddie said, leaning towards him, “you’re going through a bad time. I understand that.”

“Did you read the new pages?”

“And you look dreadful.” He laid the script on the bar. “No, I didn’t read them.”

“Why not?”

“I didn’t have time.”

“Tell her I just want one word with her.”

“Sober up. Go home and rest a few days.”

“I can’t rest.”

“You only think that. One day you’ll look back on this and wonder why you acted so stupid.”

“You think so?”

“Yes, I do.” Eddie wearily handed back the handwritten notes to Jack. “You’d better take these with you.”

“Why?”

“They belong to another play. They don’t belong to this play.”

Jack drank the whiskey.

“I thought you didn’t read them?”

“I’d be grateful if you made no more phone calls to the theatre,” Eddie continued, “and interrupted no more rehearsals.”

“I’m out of my head with grief,” said Jack.

They sat in silence.

“I thought you were my friend.”

“I am. That’s why I’m trying to keep you out of the way. Do you need some more money?” Jack looked at him. “How much do you need?”

“I need a hundred.”

“Here’s a cheque for two.”

He wrote out the cheque and Jack put it in his shirt pocket and took a taxi to the railway station. From there he shared a table on the westbound train with a Westmeath nurse who worked in St John of God’s hospital for the insane.

Some days later, after making a light meal in the cottage, Jack lay down on the bed, brought Catherine to mind and settled his member in the palm of his hand. He was feeling sexually wild. Just then the gardener’s face appeared at the window. He was standing shading his forehead with his hand, the better to see into the unlit room. Then he moved on. Startled, Jack pulled his trousers up and swung his feet onto the floor. He went to the window.

By then the face had disappeared.

He went out through the kitchen and opened the front door to find an elderly Irish playwright of the absurd standing there with his wife. Jack looked askance at them.

“Good man, Jack,” the playwright said turning, “that’s a big lump of a sea out there.”

“It’s a big sea,” agreed Jack. “For a minute there I took you to be the gardener.”

“You have a gardener?” asked the playwright, astounded.

“No,” said Jack, “but I have a dog.”

“I don’t doubt it. This is Manie. We’ve been searching for you for hours.”