She smiles then, as if he has spoken aloud. She gives a small nod. ‘It’s okay,’ she says. She looks at his large hand covering her thin bony one, still resting on his chest, and it is as if this is enough, for now at least, as if this will keep her going for as long as it takes and that she understands that might be very long, or never.

‘Next time I’ll have sugar,’ she says, and they both drop their hands, although he can still feel the imprint of hers against him. For the first time in twelve years, it occurs to Dalmar that instead of having to make everything happen, he could just let something happen, that someone else could make it happen and for once, the something that someone else makes happen to him could be a good thing, a kind thing, or at least worth the risk.

And then he thinks of how little she knows of him, and turns away so brusquely that Angela steps back with one foot, a startled expression on her face.

‘I don’t like sugar,’ he says, loudly. The echo chamber of his chest means his voice is startlingly deep when he raises its volume, a whole register lower from when he is softly spoken.

He looks at her and sees she can tell this statement isn’t true, that he’s only saying it to disagree with her, put her in the wrong.

He turns to the door and opens it, not looking back at her and not closing it behind him when he leaves. He strides the few paces to his own door and closes it firmly behind him, not slamming it but bringing an emphatic full stop to the encounter. How many times must he close his door before this woman gets the message?

In his own room, Dalmar sinks to the floor on his knees and clenches both fists and brings them up to his head, pressing hard on each temple, hard enough that his knuckles will leave a mark. Here he is, in this room on his own, safe, and there is this woman in the room next door wanting something from him and doesn’t she understand? He was responsible for the death of a woman like her.