There was one more trial of nerves that had to be gone through. He would not be free till he had spoken to her. He visualized the street he would meet her on. What coat she might be wearing. What she would say. What he would say. And how he’d keep his distance and his dignity. He would not hang on to her. This was how he would behave – with respect. He would not persist. He would be regretful and not argue.

He caught a bus to Ballina. He had been sober some time but he took his phial of Librium with him. He hurried through the wet streets that were rampant with hallucinations. He caught the afternoon train. He went round Dublin terrified of walking into her, and yet craving to see her. He turned into the street where the theatre was.

He stood in an alleyway watching his name and hers emblazoned across the entrance. The role he had written for her had released her from him. Just like that the emphasis shifted. Catherine, he’d say, I just came up to wish you the best of luck.

Footage of their previous encounters passed swiftly through his mind while he imagined some final heroic encounter. Fearful of being seen he slipped along the outside walls of the theatre and looked at the strange black-and-white stills from the play. He looked at them and tried to place them within the context of the script but couldn’t. He fled across to a side-street. At first it seemed a colossal joke that he should be standing there opposite a theatre in which his play was being performed while he had not the authority to enter it. Then came the sense of déjà-vu. When was it he had stood here before? He could not remember, and yet he saw himself in his mind’s enlarged cyclopic eye standing there in that very place waiting for Catherine. Every aspect – sound, light, taste – was exactly as he expected, and yet the scene contained an extra dimension he had not previously encountered. And with a shock he realized that this was the street where for so long he had imagined he would meet her. This was the time. She suddenly came walking towards him and stepped into a telephone booth. He felt his heart pounding. His hands shook. He watched her talk, gesticulate, frown, smile. This familiar mute performance made his heart beat giddily.

When she stepped out he approached her from behind and said: “Catherine.”

She turned and froze. For a second, just as she heard his voice, she had been about to smile in greeting. Then despair descended over her face. She stood there fighting to control herself, then she walked off.

“Please,” he pleaded, following her, “can we remain friends?”

“No,” she said coldly, striding on. “You let me down.”

“I was sick,” he replied.