It took longer. Anna fussed about. She wondered if there was enough milk. She began the washing up, then abandoned it. She left Kearney to finish the tea while she went into the bathroom and ran the taps. After that he heard her rooting about somewhere else in the flat. Drawers opened and closed. “I saw Tim the other day,” she called. This was so transparent Kearney didn’t bother to answer. “He remembered you.” Kearney stood in the kitchen, staring at the things on the shelves and drinking the weak Earl Grey he had made. He kept hold of the courier bag, feeling that if he put it down he would weaken his position. Every so often a wave of anxiety licked over him, starting somewhere deep in the brainstem, as if some very old part of him could detect the Shrander long before Kearney himself heard or saw it.

“I’ve got to go,” he said. “Anna?”

He emptied his cup into the sink. When he got to the door she was already there, standing so he couldn’t open it. She had dressed for going out, in a big cable-knit cardigan and fake Versace skirt, and there was a bag at her feet. She saw him looking down at it. “If you can go I can go too,” she said. Kearney shrugged and reached over her shoulder for the knob of the Yale lock.

“Why don’t you trust me?” she said, as if it was already established that he didn’t.

“It isn’t anything like that.”

“Oh yes it is. I try to help you—”

He made an impatient gesture.

“—only you won’t let me.”

“Anna,” he said quickly, “I help you. You’re a drunk. You’re anorexic. You’re ill most days, and on a good day you can barely walk down the pavement. You’re always in a panic. You barely live in the world we know.”

“You bastard.”

“So how can you help?”

“I’m not letting you go without me,” she said. “I’m not letting you open this door.”

She struggled against him.

“Jesus, Anna.”

He got the door open and pushed past her. She caught up with him on the stairs and held on to the collar of his jacket and wouldn’t let go even when he started to drag her down the stairs.

“I hate you,” she said.

He stopped and stared at her. They were both panting.

“Why are you doing this, then?”

She hit him in the face.

“Because you have no idea!” she shouted. “Because no one else will help you. Because you’re the useless one, the damaged one. Are you so stupid you can’t see that? Are you so stupid?”

She let go of his coat and sat down suddenly. She glanced up at him, then away again. Tears poured down her face. Her skirt had ridden up as she fell, and he found himself staring at her long, thin thighs as if he had never seen her before. When she saw that, she blinked her tears away and pulled the skirt up further. “Christ,” Kearney whispered. He turned her over and pushed her into the cold stone stairs, while she pushed back hard against his hand, sniffing and crying throughout.