I was surprised to discover that I was sobbing, but whether it was for my own ringing pain or for Sharon or for both of us, I couldn’t tell. I feared for her though, almost as much as I feared for myself, and quite suddenly I saw, as vividly as if she were in the room with us, the figure of Martha Brown, wheeling slowly half round and back again just as she had in the misty morning rain in Dorchester, her black silk gown wet on her body, the hood cold on her face, but withal perfected, as if in the murder of her husband she had attained to the consummation of her purpose. Sharon would swing likewise, gladly, if she could finish me off as comprehensively as Martha had finished off Mr Brown. Between men and women – or at least between husbands and wives – there was, after all, a long standing conflict of interests. It wasn’t for me to sort out the rights and the wrongs of it just now. But it did seem that it wasn’t in the best interest of either of us that I should let Sharon complete her work. I summoned up what was left of my strength therefore, and shielded myself as best I could with my arms and my elbows; then I ran like a blind thing into the worst that Sharon could do to me, pushed past her, and got out of the house.

[5]

I am not exaggerating when I say that at no time during this fight, and at no time for several weeks after it, did I give a thought to the contents of Gertrude Bugler’s postcard. Gertrude Bugler herself flitted before my eyes briefly, while I cowered beneath Sharon’s blows, as a desirable alternative to present company, but thereafter I let her go. And I let Monsieur de Sade go with her. I possess a gift, in extremis, which I hope will never desert me, of being able to allow my mind to empty and then drop, like a cataleptic’s jaw. An assessment of all that had happened must have been taking place in some part of me – in my liver, or my kidneys, or wherever my immortal soul was situated – but it certainly wasn’t taking place in my intelligence. That corner of myself was clear, given over to long luxurious bouts of nothingness interrupted only by passionless anticipations of physical needs. It was not unlike being a teenager again. I recall that I was even able to satisfy my small sexual requirements during this period without having to conjure up a single image of womanhood. This was not an entirely retrograde step for a person whose past performances as a giver and a taker of ecstasy had relied so heavily on a plentiful supply of mental pictures. But all I wanted from a woman now was ministration and I didn’t have to look beyond my mother for that.