Mrs Meadows? Mrs Meadows? Of Lamb House? Rye? Where’s she fit into the wider picture? That stuck-up redhead? Sage Meadows? The toff? The ‘poet’?

Protein?

I suddenly find myself thinking (stupidly, pointlessly) about the Truth. I know the Truth isn’t very popular any more. I’m only an odd-jobs man, but I have a general sense of how lately the clever people – the thinkers, the journalists, the writers, the judges and what-not – don’t really set great store by the Truth. Because there’s always a reason why someone could … always an excuse. And then circumstances may mean that something might not be entirely right or completely wrong, because of all those … those … blurred lines and … and … different viewpoints … and hidden causes … and plots … and conspiracies. It’s like the Truth is a huge block of ice and all these other things are a million, tiny pick-axes. Just chipping away. Chipping away quietly at the Truth. Until … Until what’s left? Eh?

Well I never! Just feast your eyes on that! The Truth is actually a giant, ice-sculpture of Benny Hill dressed as Ernie the Milkman!

Amazing! So lifelike!

But what about my truth? All I can think is: She was with him, Mr Huff, and now she’s with you.

That’s the truth.

My truth.

Isn’t it?

That’s the Actual Truth of this situation?

Mr Huff is speaking. He is saying something about a secret … a secret that Carla has just confided in him and how … how …

And while I hate the man. I hate him. It’s like our thoughts are … are in some kind of natural con-con-con- … in some kind of … of strange sync.

‘She told me the secret,’ he’s saying, ‘about the—’

‘Don’t bother,’ I interrupt, ‘I already know. I already know about the affair with Bran Cleary.’ Because I won’t let him think – not for one … for one second – that he’s breaking this news to me. A man has his pride, finally.

‘I already know what happened between the two of them,’ I run on, ‘but I forgave her. I forgave her. Although that still wasn’t quite enough. She won’t forgive herself, you see.’

Mr Huff looks at me, astonished. I look back at him, equally surprised (she … she had an affair with Bran Cleary?! Do I honestly, actually think that? Oh of course I bloody do! Of course I bloody do! I always suspected it. Always. And nothing else really adds up, does it?).

We are currently thirty miles over the National Speed Limit. Then we turn, sharply, at Stream House (quick change down of the gears, slight touch of the brake), turn a second time (whoooooo!), then once again into the hairpin bend (Here we are! Right on cue! Big round of applause! Incredible feats of timing from the Author!), I tug hard on the steering wheel, and …

And the seat belt – his seat belt – snaps open and he flies out. On to a grassy verge – rolling like a barrel – then into a hedge beyond.