A few minutes later, as Jack was crossing the field behind the beach, it happened a second time. Just when he had forgotten, the same mental gap opened again. But this time the wrench was longer and more frightening, for now all natural things – grass, birdsong and sea air – were becoming objects of horror. He went back to the beach and lay down on his back. His heart was beating furiously. It began to drizzle. Then followed a series of highs and lows – he would feel exhilarated to be a part of the world, then would come the low pitiful sound of his own breathing.

The walk to the car which was only a few hundred yards away seemed like miles. His wrists became itchy. He rubbed them fiercely. A knuckle on his spine started to throb. He started the car. Every mile or so it cut out. The people he saw on the road home he imagined nude, squatting over a bowl to shit. This is normal, he said, there is nothing wrong in seeing that. It happens. He saw them again and again, people sitting upright with innocent looks while under them their waste accumulated. He drove fiercely by them in the Russian car.

“I’m losing my senses,” said Jack.

“Are you all right?”

“Lie beside me,” he whispered, “I don’t feel well.”

But even as she lay beside him, he could not bring himself to touch her.

She had broken their love-vow. With terrible regret he felt the love-feeling leave his body and return deadened. If a hair of her head touched his ear, it felt like electricity. He tied back his hair with a ribbon of Catherine’s and listened to her aggrieved, disturbing breathing.

“Do you mind if I ask you something?” she said.

He did not reply.

“Will you be there when rehearsals start? If you are there, I’ll be too self-conscious.”

“I don’t know.”

“You see, it’s painful for me reading these lines.”

“Catherine, I just don’t want to talk about it right now. Just leave it for now, all right?”

She pulled away. Don’t move, he thought. Just stay perfectly still. Don’t move, Catherine.

She caught him on the hill. She flung her arms around him.

“I’m sorry about everything,” she said. “Please forgive me.”

In the spitting rain they turned back to the house. She would not let him go. He was in a cold sweat. He sat on the step of the house and looked at the mountains on Achill Island and wondered: Where does it reside – the will to go on? They walked towards Scotchport. The sun pooled on a cluster of whins. Seagulls changed to ravenous crows. A seal, with a porter face, surfaced for a look around the bay. Fish jumped in ecstasy. The seawater glimmered like saved hay. And he was sorry that he had made Catherine’s simple needs into fantastic demands.