An interesting concept that had stayed with him all his life. But as his life progressed, he wondered whether the put-on mania was in fact not put on, but the start of a mental change that would begin to haunt him and that he couldn’t control.

*

Anyway here he was, having a bit of a struggle in life, going upstream while it felt the current was getting stronger and forcing him back.

But what was it that was pushing him on?

Why was he doing this? Had he forgotten?

He thought he wanted to kill Ingmar Lorken.

No, he knew.

He returned to the Lorken gallery.

Downtown, with the hope of seeing the man himself, not to speak to, but to find out where and what he did during the day. Ever didn’t valet park, he just sat in the car and waited. He saw no one but made the decision that he would do this every day until he saw Mr Lorken and could get the pattern of this man’s life.

*

Let’s see what Lomita has to say.

Hopefully not fuck off, get out of my life.

There was an obvious trepidation. Almost a sweat-inducing panic, as once again he extended his digit to exact the pressure, thinking, strangely, given the circumstances, that Manita should polish the brass bell button.

He waited and heard no footsteps; unsurprising as the door was opened by a person in a wheelchair.

It was Lomita, looking tired, but with a smile, that smile, and he cried, with relief. Released it all on to the herringbone-pattern red brick step.

She said nothing, letting him expunge his pain, and the air around joyously responded to her wave, encouraging him inside. She wheeled herself across the brown floor, this time to waiting double doors, that were open, on the right of the big brown room. It was the dining room.

Places were set for two, adjacent to each other. She wheeled her chair to the head of the table, with her back to the garden, and he was afforded the seat on her left, offering a view of the recently manicured lawn that gave its pristineness away not only by its physical immaculacy but by the smell of fresh cut grass that always made Ever think of cricket. And incongruously, at that moment he thought of his 101 not out, made when he was fourteen.

And then she spoke.

‘Unfortunately, I was still awake when your letter came through the door, and I had, I suppose as a result of that, a bad night.’

That was not, Ever thought, a good start.

‘But I’m not about to reprimand you, or anything, you are a grown-up, I am presuming anyway, otherwise where do we possibly begin. But you used my name. My name.’

The last two words were repeated with greater force.