His mind scanned to Lomita. He thought of her remark about revenge, his good soul clicked in for that split atom second and he wanted to talk to her, ask her what she meant. Advice, that was a positive sign, and maybe a way back. A way back into her life.

An excuse at least, to see her again.

He got out of his car, having been the second in line to valet, after the electricity of blue had rendered all else into insignificance, and followed Mr Lorken into the gallery. When he walked in, the man was nowhere to be seen. Had he gone into an office? A private escape. But then a glimpse of the grey passed by the entrance to where men were working, painting the walls of an empty space. Preparation, he presumed, for Jean-Michel Basquiat. He deserved a fresh coat of paint. He had come to discuss the hanging of the paintings, that would be his function in the process, that would be his control over the event. It would all, of course, be decided by him. Everything was, of course. Who lived. Who died. He was God. He was Ingmar Lorken.

Would he be, soon, an historical figure, confined to the history books of great benefactors perpetuating the belief that it was all done for the greater good of the world. So that the world could share.

Egomania, thought Ever, pure ego-fucking-mania.

The security guards, two of them, crossed the area in an informal march at the entrance to the space that housed the one they perceived to be the great man. They would obviously prevent any communication between Ever and Mr Lorken. However it was not their intervention that presented the obstacle, as Ever’s phone rang, a rare event in itself.

*

It was Clarissa.

It was a time when Jacob would be asleep and he answered the call, dismissing his instinct, which was to not.

‘Hello.’

They both said, at the same time, a time delay and a sort of distort corrupted the purity of what should be simple, having put men on the moon nearly fifty years ago.

‘How’s Jacob? Is everything all right? Where are you? Are you at home, or where?’

‘I am at home, Ever.’

She stated with a formality, the obvious suggestion in her voice being that any alternative accommodation had now proved unsatisfactory.

‘I am at our home. I assume that is all right with you.’

‘Fine, of course. Fine.’

What else was he going to say?

‘When are you back? I thought you would be back soon. Jacob misses you. He still calls you Dada. He doesn’t understand anything else. You are his father in his mind, Ever, and the other guy—’

She didn’t bring herself to the point of name.

‘He doesn’t really seem to be too bothered either way.’