We sometimes saw Birgitta and Charles down at Port Eynon, where they now live. She paints and he looks after their daughters. I only spoke to Birgitta once, two weeks after Springrise when they were both preparing to leave Sector Twelve for good.

‘Hello, Deputy Worthing,’ she said when I opened my door one morning. I’d stayed in the Siddons. I kind of liked it there and had formed an attachment to Clytemnestra.

‘It’s Charlie,’ I said, trying hard not to stare. The return of Charles had lifted the melancholy I had seen in her earlier. I was still in love with her and would remain so for many years, but I think that was Webster’s love, carried over from his dream. If I was getting only half of what he felt, they would be happy as none other.

She asked me if I still had the painting she did of me, and could she have it back. I said that was fine, which saved me five hundred euros, and when she came in to fetch it, I asked her if she recalled anything from when she was a nightwalker.

‘I remember being under a car,’ she said, thinking hard, ‘and in the tub having my hair cut off. Other than that, zilch.’

She stared at me with her penetrating violet eyes, then held up her hand with the missing thumb.

‘I was reported retired, but someone decided I was worth keeping and spared me. I was also looked after in my room at the Siddons. I owe a Debt to someone. Do you know anything about that?’

I wanted to tell her what I felt, and what I’d done, and what I’d risked to keep her safe and just how close it had all been, but that would have only complicated matters. And to be honest the love that had kept her safe was her husband’s, channelled through me. It was his triumph as much as anyone’s.

‘I shouldn’t tell you this,’ I said, ‘but your thumb was entered into the books by Jonesy. She’s no longer with us, but I have a feeling that she might have had something to do with it. We all owe her a lot. I found this in her stuff. I guess it belongs to you.’

I handed her the Polaroid of her and Charles on the beach at Rhossilli and she gazed at the faded photo intently.

‘Those were happy days.’

‘For me, too’, I said, ‘there’ll always be the Gower.’

‘Yes,’ she said thoughtfully, ‘there’ll always be the Gower.’

She then smiled, kissed me on the cheek, and looked at her watch.

‘We’ve a train to catch. Cheerio, Charlie – and thank you.’