That evening she drank most of the wine, laughed a lot and took off her clothes, then fell asleep suddenly on the bed. Kearney pulled the covers over her, drew the faux-gingham curtains, and plugged the handicam into the TV. He turned off the lights and for a while ran idly through the stuff he had taken on the beach. He rubbed his eyes. Anna snored suddenly, said something indistinct. The last of the handicam images, ill-lit and grainy-looking, showed her in the corner of the room. She had got as far as unbuttoning her jeans. Her breasts were already bare, and she was turning her head as if Kearney had just spoken to her, her eyes wide, her mouth sweet but tired with acceptance, as if she already knew what was going to happen to her.

He froze that image on the screen, found a pair of scissors and cut two or three lengths of the wire he had bought that morning. These, he placed close to hand on the bedside table. Then he took off his clothes, stripped the chef’s knife out of its plastic wrap, pulled back the bedclothes and looked down at her. She lay curled up, with one arm placed loosely round her knees. Her back and shoulders were as thin and unmuscled as a child’s, the spine prominent and vulnerable. Her face, in profile, had a sharp, hollowed-out look, as if sleep was no rest from the central puzzle of being Anna. Kearney stood above her, hissing through his teeth, mainly in anger at the things that had led her here, led him here. He was about to start when he thought he would throw the Shrander’s dice, just to be sure.

She must have heard them tumbling on the bedside table, because when he turned back she was awake and looking up at him, dull and fractious with sleep, her breath sour from the wine. Her eyes took in the knife, the wire, Kearney’s unaccustomed erection. Unable to understand what was happening, she reached up with one hand and tried to pull him down towards her.

“Are you going to fuck me now?” she whispered.

Kearney shook his head, sighed.

“Anna, Anna,” he said, trying to pull away.

“I knew,” she said, in a different voice. “I always knew you’d do it in the end.”

Kearney detached himself gently. He put the knife back on the bedside table. “Kneel up,” he whispered. “Kneel up.”

She knelt up awkwardly. She seemed confused.

“I’ve still got my knickers on.”

“Shh.”

Kearney held her with his hand. She moved against him, made a small noise and began to come immediately.

“I want you to come!” she said. “I want you to come too!”