I wasn’t sure what my plan was. I suppose I was hoping that she might suddenly appear riding along on her daft bicycle or pop her head over the walkway wall and shout, ‘Hey, anyone out there looking for me?’ I had no plan. I sat back in my seat and took in the surroundings. There weren’t many people about. Some fifty yards ahead of me a bloke in an old boiler suit was fiddling with the rubber seal around the rear windscreen of a car. His arse looked very full and pressurized as he leant over on his tiptoes to reach the furthest corner of the screen. I commenced an interest in the thought that if his heart was actually situated inside one of his buttocks, he would still look exactly the same. His secret would be between himself, his loved ones and his medical team. Maybe he would have to tell his work colleagues and his insurers. His heart wouldn’t have the protection it enjoys by being in the ribcage. That might be a worry, especially, for example, if a farmer was kicking him in the arse for trespassing on his field. The thought faded away and I spat on my sleeve to wipe away a blemish on the windscreen. I just made it worse.

I picked up the copy of The Satsuma Complex from the passenger seat. I brought it with me to use as an excuse for calling on Satsuma should I find her – ‘Hi, I just wanted to return your book. You left it in the pub the other night. How incredible is that? I’m a wonderful man I hope you agree.’

I read the blurb on the back cover:

The Satsuma Complex is a novel about loneliness, lack of identity and cultural and moral corruption. Its characters are confused but compelling. A haunting meditation on love and loss and everything in between.

It still sounded shit. I had another quick glimpse at Satsuma’s message: ‘You won’t be disappointed – Ha!’ But I knew that I would be if I entered its pages.