Now I understood what goes on behind the closed doors of those in pain. The elastic nature of time, where keening takes over and what seems like hours can be minutes. I lost track of the days and nights and kept my curtains closed. I turned off the phones and either unplugged the TV or watched it for twenty-four hours solid.

The drinking began after the first week. I needed to eat so I ordered a pizza. While I was waiting I drank two bottles of Budweiser that were left over from a barbeque we had had. They were years old but I still drank them. Then I found the bottles of vodka you’d brought back from Russia.

You’d warned me that they were very valuable. When I thought about it, you’d spoken to me like I was a child. Or stupid. They’re valuable, Caroline, so don’t drink them. It had been the same with everything. Don’t drive too fast, Caroline, or you might crash. Don’t wear that dress, Caroline, or you’ll look fat. Don’t walk to work, Caroline, you’ll get tired.

Everything had a patronising explanation tagged onto the end of it. You tolerated me. You were impatient with me. You never wanted me really. You just put up with me.

You came back on day ten. I heard the gate click and it was too late for the postman. I was sitting in the hallway, behind the door, just staring into space and listening to the world outside the door. People walking up and down the pavement. People who could still function. My neighbours coming and going. The postman. The window cleaner.

I heard your footfall and I knew it was you. You don’t live with someone all that time and not recognise all their intricacies. In the instant between you opening the front door and me crawling into the cupboard under the stairs I looked into the house. It was a fucking mess. Suddenly I could smell the week-old takeaways and the stale alcohol. I panicked about the clothes and the records but then realised that if you’d really wanted them you would have already taken them. That wasn’t what you were here for.

I was in the cupboard. I could just see out of the crack as you passed and went into the kitchen. Caroline. You called me. Again, Caroline. You went upstairs and checked the bedrooms. Then you checked the lounge. Then you stood in the kitchen, arms on hips, smiling. You surveyed the chaos and nodded. I’d seen that nod before, when you’d finished felting the shed roof, or painting the landing. I knew what it meant. Job done.