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.”

“This gardener is haunting me. I could not believe it when I saw him at the window.”

“Well, it wasn’t him, was it?”

“No. It wasn’t, but it could have been.”

“Do you take a drink in the middle of the day?”

They went to the Erris Hotel, where Jack was entertained lavishly. At one stage he asked the playwright for his jacket.

“You want my jacket?”

“I do. It looks fierce like one I used to have.”

“And you want it?”

“I’ll give you mine for it,” said Jack.

“Right,” said the playwright, and started to take off his sports jacket as Jack took off his blue shop-coat.

“Keep that on you,” said Manie to her husband. “Can’t you see, it won’t fit?”

“Are you sure?”

“Of course I’m sure.”

“That’s a pity,” said the playwright. They toasted each other. “You should be happy. I see they are saying nice things about you in the newspapers, Jack.”

“I have to go to the toilet.”

“He must have something against compliments,” the playwright laughed at his wife.

“I have the runs.”

“Oh dear,” said Manie, and she closed her eyes.

“Can I tell you something in confidence?” Jack said when he returned.

“Yes?”

“I’m thinking of calling it off!” he confided. He came closer. “Did you know they won’t allow me into rehearsals.”

“I didn’t know that.”

“That’s what’s going on now,” he whispered in a self-righteous voice.

“Why?” asked the woman.

“And they’ve refused to accept my changes to the script,” he continued.

“You should tell them to fuck off,” declared the playwright, “and get yourself a solicitor.”

“Do you think so?”

“I do.”

“But there must be some reason,” Manie persevered.

“Say nothing,” Jack suddenly whispered.

“What?”

“That’s him now,” Jack nodded secretively and winked.