I didn’t drive home; I drove on into Oxford. I knew where to park, behind the Old Bank Hotel, which had become a brasserie. I found a seat inside, on the banquette bench against the wall, and ordered a coffee. I sipped it slowly. The place was busy, bustling. A fair amount of students, some prospective, I thought, looking at their nervous, eager faces, together with their parents. Some professors, too, I decided. A pair beside me, middle-aged women, were talking earnestly, their noses almost touching over the small table. Good. Good. Thank heavens for clever, preoccupied people. I sank back on the leather seat, watching, watching. Huge murals hung on the walls. Why so big? Oil paintings, with too much colour. I averted my eyes. The place ebbed and flowed. More young people came in. My coffee was cold, but I sipped it still. Eventually a young waitress came across and asked me if I was all right. Yes, why? It was just that I’d been there a long time. Three hours, and they wondered … I gazed at her, shocked. Then at my watch. Three hours! The women beside me had been replaced by a young couple. I stumbled an apology, paid for my coffee and left. I was horrified. It was as if Turner had deliberately sent me there, to vindicate him. As if he’d been watching. Three hours. I knew too, that on the day Michael’s bowl had been broken, I’d dusted the bedroom. Which was unusual, because normally I left it to our cleaner. Was it me? Was I actually insane? Had I locked Michael’s possessions in a drawer in my desk, the ones he accused Ned and Imo of taking, and then wiped it from my brain? Had I thrown my mother’s letters in the outside dustbin, before Michael had a chance to look at them? I saw myself lifting the lid, glancing furtively about, dropping them in. Was I, in fact, out of my mind?