The next day we discovered an infestation of rats. At Shimmy’s. There was one in the garden and then one in the kitchen and then two in the garden shed. And a huge nest in the compost heap. And then a neighbour complained and demanded that we put down poison, but Shimmy refused to, so they called in the council and the man who turned up kindly informed us that the shed was made from asbestos. Then he called in a friend who happened to be a surveyor with a special interest in asbestos and he turned out to be the same man who had visited me in Fairlight (but of course I had ignored his advice because – well, because I didn’t like it and because I thought I knew better and because I didn’t actually … didn’t actually care what he told me). So he began wandering around the house finding sheets of asbestos everywhere. In the ceiling. In the walls. Shimmy became utterly hysterical and rather abusive. The surveyor was offended. I tried my best to mollify him – the surveyor – by asking him if he might look in on Mulberry to assess the potential damage there (both properties were of a similar age). And he said he would be more than happy to pop by, if – or when – he could find a spare moment.

Then the next day (after visiting Clifford’s dad – unsuccessfully; he’d been rushed into surgery), I staggered up to Mulberry and I was almost through the gate when I saw an injured robin, just sitting on the path. And I hurried past it, but then I hurried back again and I picked it up and I took it home and then I tried my best to feed it but it wouldn’t take anything and it died overnight and we buried it, at sea, floated it out to sea, Shimmy and me – in an extra-large matchbox – and then I returned to Mulberry and I was about to knock on the door – I was all the way up the path this time – when Mrs Meadows came bustling out and she told me – in no uncertain terms – that Mr Huff was resting and that he should not be disturbed under any circumstances, so I headed home and I sat down and I started to think that maybe it wasn’t fated (remember before? When I dropped the cheque off? Remember that?) and I telephoned Alys and I didn’t tell her what had happened, I didn’t tell her anything, not really, I just … I talked about the photographs and then after – after our conversation – or during our conversation I decided to simply … to just offer all it up. This urge to confess. To just offer it up. Which I did. Please take it, God, I said. Please take it. And I offered it. With all my heart. I offered it. All of it. Every, little bit of it. I offered and I offered until nothing was left. Or at least, so I thought.