He leaves, heading back out the door he arrived through. Elaine watches him the whole way. His car disappears at speed, and I understand that the hand on Elaine’s back was a gesture of power more than intimacy. I slump against the hedge, and watch her. She paces, distressed, picks up something and throws it at the wall, and then sits with her head in her hands, and sobs. Why don’t I go to her? Is it because it would be too creepy for her to know I was out here spying? Or is it because I don’t understand what I have just witnessed?

I crawl on hands and knees until I reach the sheds, and then I run, stumbling and tripping just to burn the adrenaline that is bursting in my body. The spotlight is now in the far distance, several paddocks away, so at least I am safe from that. My steps in the soft soil keep time with the battering of thoughts in my head. Is Elaine being forced to do something she doesn’t want to do and is too afraid to tell me about? That would put her in the clear. Sort of. If everything is linked, then Ben is a definite bad guy, more involved than I realised. I walk and then ride, and reach home.

I wander around my house, hoping a way forward will blossom in my head. I see Ben hitting Elaine again, and the fury with which she held that knife. Maybe they are in an abusive relationship that is also a crime partnership. That feels possible for Ben, but not Elaine. Then I watch TV for a while, not seeing it, which is good because I hate TV. It is full of stories of relationships, and failure, and loss, which make me hurt. Eventually, I sleep, not having come up with any answers.

In the morning, I drive around the farm, sticking to my pointless routine. The landscape is still green, abundant, and awesome. The weather is so mild and faultless that even I feel the beauty of it. Is there a perfect temperature for a human being? One that lifts your spirit, no matter how low? That’s how it feels, and I am desperate for the goodness of it. I know that Keats and his mates thought of autumn as decline, but round here it can match spring for splendour, and the threat of winter is no more fatal than the threat of summer.