‘Second row down, far left.’

‘What?’

‘A picture of Bernie, there’s one taken last year, second row down, far left.’

Cormac put on his best frown.

‘I was just looking in general at the pictures, Harry.’

‘Are you sure you’re a politician?’

‘What’s that supposed to mean?’

‘For a career that involves compulsive lying, you’re pretty useless at it!’

He raised his hands in mock surrender.

‘Point taken.’

As he approached the picture gallery, Cormac was aware of the noisy beating of his heart. It was a familiar feeling to him. One that was present when he stood in the silence of a packed courtroom and was about to address an expectant jury, or was always there whenever he stood in parliament to make his contribution to a debate. He stopped before reaching the wall.

‘What are you waiting for?’

Harry was busily strapping his guitar onto his shoulder and hadn’t raised his head.

‘I can’t bring her into the present.’

Harry looked up and sighed.

‘You were always too deep for your own good. It’s only a photograph, for Christ’s sake. Whatever happened Cormac, it was more than 20 years ago. It’s all ancient history.’

Cormac moved across the room and sat opposite Harry.

‘That’s just it. I’ve spent the last 22 years trying to erase the memory of her, her face, the touch of her hand, the smell of her skin.’

‘How much you hurt her?’

There was no malice in his friend’s question.

‘Yes, that too. But it’s more than that, Harry. No matter how hard I’ve tried to forget her, I don’t think a day has gone by when I haven’t thought about her. Was she happy? Did she ever marry? Did she have kids?’

‘Then why didn’t you contact her?’

‘Because I betrayed her, Harry. I betrayed her the most. She gave everything she had to me, and I told her she would never regret that. No matter what happened, I would love her, I would never leave her, nothing would ever come between us. Then I ran away.’

Harry tuned his guitar.

‘That still doesn’t explain why you won’t look at a photo that was taken last year.’

‘Because the picture I have in my head is of a girl who is forever 18, whose eyes tell me she loves me unconditionally, who has never had her dreams torn to shreds. I am frightened of what I will see in the picture.’

He started to strum.

‘I refer the honourable gentleman to the point I made earlier. Too deep! Now shall we play some songs and enjoy what little is left of the evening?’

Cormac picked up the other guitar and followed his lead.

He awoke to the familiar thud of his hangover. As he mustered the will to open his reluctant eyes, he tried to recall the events of the night before. When nothing of any note was forthcoming, he sat up in his bed and peeked into the world. It was only then he realised he hadn’t made it from Harry’s couch. He stood up in the same clothes he had sat down in and made the familiar promise to himself to be more disciplined with his drinking. Feeling a nausea rising like a rushing tide in his throat, he stumbled to the bathroom and poured the contents of his stomach into the porcelain bowl. He kept his head over the bowl just in case he was not finished. He wiped his mouth with perfumed toilet paper.