Not long ago I thought that if Sonja left me I would lock myself away because no one could ever stand next to me in the space she’s occupied but I’m now wondering if that space needs to be filled.

When I was rummaging through the boxes in the attic of my mother’s house, I found the photos of that summer in Ispes. Found a picture of Merboy sitting on a tree-trunk, his feet dangling in the lake. He was tanned and relaxed, easy with his body, which was tall even then. His hair was long, a shock of black against brown skin. His chest had begun to fill, the muscles on his arms showed, and the wet black hairs on his legs were sleek with dripping water. He was looking into the sun and his eyes were small chips of blue as he squinted. I sat on the rough joists in the attic and looked at that photograph for an age. I stared at Merboy across nearly thirty years and it seemed to me that he was staring back, challenging me. For a wild moment I thought he was going to speak. He didn’t but that hardly mattered because I knew exactly what he would have said.

Today was Ellen’s funeral. I can’t imagine life without her. I suppose I should be grateful that she lived as long as she did but I’m not because it wasn’t long enough. I can’t stop crying. What on earth will my mother do?

Not long ago I packed my bags and left, worrying that I might never come here again, back to this house that I share with Sonja. But I did. I came back. I’m no longer sure why I did. I don’t care about the house any more, I don’t have a sense of peace when I come home to find Sonja already there. I feel nothing.

I slept alone on the sofa far longer than I needed to, making excuses about having to get up all the time, saying that I moved around too much trying to get comfortable, to sleep with Sonja. Eventually I went back to our bed, on the day they pulled the gauze out of my ears (feet of it, a never-ending blood-soaked string), but I don’t sleep. I lie there and think of how I arrived here and whether it’s where I want to be. I’ve lost interest in Elemental, I’m bored of dealing with other people, customers and workers alike. Sometimes I think that if I could go back to when we started, Ian and I, if we could work together, do manual work together, maybe I’d feel differently. Now I’m just a manager. I don’t do anything. I manage accounts, draw up plans and quotations, struggle with VAT. It’s not what I wanted. Sometimes, during what are called the witching hours, I stare into the darkness and feel as if I’m blurred, as if I’m indistinct.

I skipped work today. I got up and dressed, drove to Bedminster, walked towards the office then turned round and left. I got back into the Jeep and drove to Noss Mayo. The sun followed me, made the journey short. I haven’t been back there since the morning of my thirteenth birthday and it has changed but not as much as it might have done. Driving through the village I could see boxy new houses squeezed into back gardens, holiday apartments in the huge old barns and warehouses at the head of the creek, but the river was still in place, the pilings still weathering. The Swan and the Ship were unchanged. The village hall and the church looked the same. The tide was out so I parked on the shale and sand outside the Ship and walked round the back to the lane. The tiny cottages were as I remembered them — front gardens thick with roses, small windows open on a surprisingly hot day. At the end of the lane, looking over Newton Ferrers, was the cottage Merboy lived in. I sat on the wall opposite and lit a cigarette, sat and looked at the window where his bedroom had been.