She walked back towards the town, passing under Clare’s memorial arch that stood like a bridge over a river of wind. It was then that I realized the truth of the curse I had called down upon myself. I found I truly did not feel the pain and the anger that were my right. I downloaded the picture of Francis from the internet and stared at it for hours, trying. I went to the funeral and cried along with everyone else, but I cried for myself. Francis was to be buried in London, ostensibly because his father wished his many friends to be able to visit him easily. People nodded in approval at this convenient explanation, but I guessed that the same reasons that had excluded him from the family trust kept him from the burial plot in the churchyard of the family’s Northamptonshire estate. Even with his history and genes hidden under the soil, his headstone would strike a wrong note amongst so many venerable English ancestors. It was a miserable day, black and stormy, and the congregation huddled under dark umbrellas. I saw Lord Soulford across the grave and scowled at him, but even the sight of him weeping tears over his abandoned son did nothing. I felt no anger at his hypocrisy, no pity at his grief. We had not been invited, had in fact been conspicuously not invited, but I knew Lord Soulford would not risk the unsightly incident that would arise if he tried to eject us. Lisa was there, and in accordance with our agreement we said nothing to her. Her black suit was Gucci, the veil and hat handmade. She looked sexy. She came over and hugged us wordlessly before returning to her car, the driver holding open the door for her to climb back in. Jessica and I took the bus back from the cemetery into central London, and then the train from King’s Cross. We were wearing black suits, and Jessica would from time to time start crying silently, dabbing at her tears with a wodge of tissues we picked up from McDonald’s. The crowds of busy people parted for us, half in respect and half in fear, as if death were a disease that could be caught. I thought that the well of my soul had run dry.

Jessica and I saw less and less of each other over the course of the year. There was no argument, no waystone to mark the end of our friendship, just a drift that was too comfortable to arrest. I began to avoid the U.L., as the Wren Library was quite sufficient for my needs and close to my room. I continued my habit of buying films, and progressed from buying the movies to buying books about the movies and attending the special cinema nights held around the city. Most of the money I had left went to fund my habit, and the quiet darkness of the cinema became my retreat. I pulled it over my head like a blanket.