“I’d have been suspended at first. Then I’d have been arrested and it would have gone to trial and I’d have been sent to prison. I’d never have been able to practice as a GP again.”

What in God’s name is the matter with him? Doesn’t he realize that all these things are going to happen anyway? He’s just killed a woman in cold blood.

I nod, as if what he’s saying makes perfect sense. As if I understand and am on his side. It’s quite clear from what he’s saying that his overriding concern in all of this is himself. I listen to him speak, listen to his insane justification for murder, and I don’t interrupt him anymore, because, really, what’s the point? He’s as sick as she is. As she was.

Finally, he gets ready to leave. He’s reluctant to go, but he has no choice in the matter. Visiting hours are over and the nurse is adamant that I need to rest. Besides, as Ross himself says when she goes away, there are certain things at home that he needs to “sort out.” We look at each other for the longest time when he says this. I don’t respond, but I make a small movement with my mouth. Not quite a smile, but it’s enough to reassure him.

The phrase and its implications chill me. All he’s thinking about are the practicalities of the situation. He really does think he can “sort this out.” As if Catherine’s dead body is merely a problem to be solved. What does he think he’s going to do with her?

I wait for a full five minutes after he’s gone before reaching for the call button at the side of my bed. I don’t think the nurse believes me at first. I can’t say I blame her. It sounds preposterous. Like some horrific fantasy I’ve just made up. But eventually, I get through to her and she rushes off to phone the police.

I close my eyes against the bright lights of the ward and Catherine’s body slides down the wall once more.

If I let myself relax, properly relax, so that my limbs are light and tingly, so that I have the sensation my body is floating on air and that I am at one with the universe, my mind slows, and the enormity of what I’ve done loses its power to haunt me. For however many minutes I remain in this state, I am free.

Free from the past. Free from her.

But the mind has a habit of breaking through, of striving for the clarity of conscious thought. Something will bring me back—the slam of a heavy door; the clanking of a guard’s keys; my cellmate’s fart—and my focus will return. A crescendo of shame and disgust.