There was no sign of the doctor when we arrived home. I had been anxious on the way back, thinking he might still be here, waiting and hungry to unburden himself of whatever it was that had been troubling him. I don’t like to see him troubled. But it wouldn’t have suited me at all to find him here as I have tonight earmarked for getting these painful notes finished, off my chest, out of my hair.

Will I then feel purged? I shouldn’t think so. But maybe by the time I wake up tomorrow morning I may feel that I have salvaged something from the wreck.

That’s all we can do, really. Keep salvaging.

But before I open up, I’d like to clear my head of the evening’s conversation – well, monologue really. I was not allowed to speak, not a word, except to order my meal. I was hardly allowed to eat. Lar became more and more like the ancient mariner, staring across the table, on and on telling me this story that I didn’t want to hear, but that he insisted I had to hear. I had to share eye contact with him, and if I dropped my eyes to my plate or let them wander round the high, gaunt room he would grab my hand and hold it painfully tight until my eyes returned once more to his face. I didn’t want to hear his story. I wanted to put my fingers in my ears and close my eyes, so that I couldn’t even see his mouth opening and closing. On and on.

Now my head is filled with his story, Caitlin’s story. The story of where hate leads you. Down a grotesque path that ends with the little nursery song that he sang in a low voice, leaning towards me across the table covered with expensive glasses, linen, china. ‘Old Macdonald had a farm, ee.i.ee.i.o.’

Very low his voice was as he sang, almost a raging whisper.

‘And on that farm he had a pig …’

I feel now as if his eyes had left scorchmarks on my face, as if the hand he held so tight had been burned by the heat of his fingers and his anger.

Slowly he released his grip and we were at the side of their grave, Caitlin and the little girl. He was wearing his clean shirt and his mother was beside him, dressed from head to toe in grey, holding his arm so that he couldn’t escape. I felt the cold and the sorrow by that grave and he became silent and let go my hand and looked down at the table.

‘I’m sorry,’ he said.

All I could do was nod my head.

He asked for the bill.

I disliked him.

There are times I really despise myself.

I also had the oddest feeling, as I watched him deal with credit card and tips that he was making some kind of play for me. I disliked him even more at that moment.