At the top of the stairs, he crosses into the bedroom, lays Leah gently on the crumpled sheets. The stillness in her conveys a sense of peace and he feels himself longing for it too.

‘Not long, my darling. Almost there,’ he tells her.

He smooths the bedclothes around her, fixes her head on the pillow. Blood seeps through the cotton pillowcase, spreading quickly. He arranges her hair to hide it. There are things that need to be done, but for just a moment he stands and gazes at her, his eyes passing over her prone body, so small and helpless in the drift of the big bed. Her face is peaceful, her breathing calm.

He thinks of Agamemnon, when the gods had demanded his daughter, Iphigenia – how Agamemnon must have felt in those moments before the sacrifice, how the pain and fear of the prospect must have been eased by her serenity, her acceptance. And that is what he feels from Leah. Acceptance. Equanimity. With this act, he will take away her suffering. No more will she be tortured by thoughts of that child. No more will she have to strive to overcome her guilt, her fears. There is nothing for her on this earth, only judgement and pain. Together, they can leave it all behind.

With purpose gathering inside him, he hurries to the bathroom. In the cabinet, he finds the pills, grinds them up and stirs them into a cup of water that he fills at the bathroom tap. Next, he sees to the letters. There is paper in the cabinet beside his bed and he takes out two sheets and writes quickly. A note for Mark, and another for Cassandra. They will not understand and he won’t try to explain. Cursory missives telling them that he loves them and that he’s sorry. That he wants to be with their mother now. He makes no reference to Leah, cannot begin to explain why she must come with him. He stuffs the letters into envelopes, offering up a silent apology with the foresight of anguished questions to which there will never be answers.

He takes the letters and the glass of powdered water, then crosses the landing back to the front bedroom. On the dressing-table in front of the bay window, he leaves the letters for Mark and Cassandra propped against the mirror. Then, taking the glass, he turns back to the bed and sees her lying there with her eyes wide open, staring at him.

His heart stumbles, then rights itself, beating quickly now. Her gaze is clear and direct, her body unmoving, so that, for a moment, he thinks she must be dead. But then her brow wrinkles with sudden pain, and her limbs start to move. She draws her gaze from his and tries to roll over on to her front, a groan of anguish or pain emerging from her throat.