She was an itch I longed to scratch.

Crazy, really.

So I made Mrs Barrow ring her up – on the pretext of being angry about the gypsies … and … and then I … so when she …

After the kiss. Let me just come out and say it. Okay, fine, I won’t pretend that it was the most successful or the most erotic or the most … most romantic of encounters, but still …

Still.

Because it was all about Bran and Kimberly, before. The photos. It was all about trying to see how Kimberly saw Bran. How Bran looked back at my wife, the camera. It was all about trying to work out whether what had happened between them was merely an accident – a feeling, that suddenly developed – or something connected to Kimberly’s … something more calculated and … and … and terrible. Were they just the bungling victims of cruel circumstance – Kimberly’s line – or the evil perpetrators of something way more dark and insidious? Because if the state didn’t think there was a serious case to answer, then why – why?! – did Bran end up incarcerated? On remand, yes. But refused bail? Considered a flight risk? Because he was parked in his own driveway! The incendiary device was hidden inside the boot of his own car! Did it explode accidentally or (as Kimberly always insisted) had it been planted there?

Kim was a photographer! Just a photographer!

And he was a muralist. A Republican sympathizer, yes, but not a terrorist.

Bran and I met at university. He was in the year above. Dashing. Handsome. Sullen. Charming. Vulgar. Debonair. He quit his history degree after eighteen months to train to become a … a stonemason, no less! Spent all his time back in Ireland, dangling off old churches on creaking harnesses, preserving gargoyles. Designing ornate tombstones. The painting came later.

But we kept in touch. Kim photographed some of his earlier work in Belfast as part of a larger post-grad project she’d undertaken on ‘Protest Art’.

Kim’s father died when she was twelve. He was raised in Derry then emigrated to Canada in his mid-twenties. Worked as a cabbie. Drank himself to death. Kim had no interest in politics. When talk would turn to politics at dinner parties, she’d help to clear the table, pull on some Marigolds and get started on the washing-up.

I suppose this was something else we had in common. Although I’ve never been afraid to engage with a subject, intellectually. Throw out a few fresh ideas. Play the devil’s advocate.

Was Kimberly too blank? Was it her very blankness that drew me to her? And our dear Miss Hahn? The ‘glacial’ Miss Hahn?

When she did eventually turn up … (the aforementioned ice-block). Well, I saw her before that. I was standing on the front porch, waiting for a first sighting of her, you know, pelting down the Sea Road – as she generally does – on her ancient bike. Awful trousers held in check by a pair of stainless-steel bicycle clips. I’ve seen her walk around in those things for hours on end. Sometimes just one. The other leg flapping freely. Or wearing them like two bangles on her wrists. Or even like an Egyptian-style ornament on her upper arm. Totally unselfconscious about it. What an extraordinary combination of studied and careless she is! Extraordinary! Who can possibly account for it?