I go to work and spend all day researching the trigger point for people to snap. A bit like in that film with Michael Douglas. Falling Down. A lot of people who have committed shoot-em-ups were interviewed about what made them do it. The obvious flaw in this is that they’re probably going to say whatever makes them appear in the best possible light, because psychopaths are liars and do have a sense of what they have done wrong, they just don’t believe it. And they just don’t really care. Not deep down inside. So lying is of no consequence to them. More second nature, isn’t it, Jack?

When I get home I go up the garden and retrieve the journal. I thought that I’d made my decision. It had upset me so much that I knew the only sane thing to do was to get rid of it. But it’s too compelling. The knowledge that I was right all along makes the suffering worthwhile. Even though it’s torturing me, I open it and read it again.

High fucking Fidelity? You were always a War and Peace man. You liked to tell everyone that you had read Dostoevsky. You hadn’t, but you had read every Martin Amis. And Will Self. Not that there’s anything wrong with a bit of lad lit. But it just isn’t you.

The more I read of the journal, the more I see that you moulded yourself around those women. If they liked classical music, you’d take them to the Proms. If they liked rock you’d buy concert tickets. It was clear that you went to massive lengths to make them feel special. Even more than I thought. Special. You didn’t want me. You wanted them. Special.

I reach for the vodka again. But the cupboard is bare and I’m dry. I could go out to the off-licence and buy some cheap stuff but I’m not cheap. Somehow I need to work out what I should do and how I’m going to get my mind off your fucking cheating. I almost throw the journal across the room, but I know that’s pointless. My phone rings and it’s your mother. Of course it is.

I leave it to go to answerphone because I know what she’s going to say. I watch the message icon flash on the screen and then I press play.

‘Caroline, it’s Missy. I’ve had a call from Jack.’

Of course she has. If you can’t get to me through the police, then you’ll send in the fucking cavalry. Who you convinced that I was totally insane. Although Missy didn’t need much convincing.