‘You must be back no later than four on Friday.’

‘I will be, dear.’

‘And for once in your life listen to me and retire.’

‘We’ll talk about it when I get back.’

‘Take care of yourself.’

‘And you, dear.’

Retirement is strictly off the agenda: I’m about to start anew. In the toe-tingle moments of descending sleep, a plan of action has begun to form in my mind – a sweet redemption of my empty existence and a satisfactory settling of old scores. I have Dovidl where I want him, and the world will be a different kettle of fish: my oyster, at last.

Wednesday is my favourite day, half-way through the week, a nexus of work and anticipated leisure. Sipping juice and coffee on a tray in my room, I call Sandra Adams, who sounds pleased to hear from me. We fix breakfast for the next morning, and she promises to let me give her career advice. I have an avuncular role to play there, perhaps more.

There is still an hour to kill before Dovidl arrives, and I spend it filling sheets of marbled paper with fervid calculations.

He draws up on the dot of time, in a battered blue Volkswagen camper with a fixed table and benches in the rear. ‘Useful for family holidays,’ he explains. ‘I thought we might take a spin along the coast.’

‘Not the ideal time of year.’

‘True,’ he acknowledges, ‘but private.’

He does not want to be seen with me by any of his frum friends. I belong to a hidden past. I must be exorcised or placated in a secluded spot before he can resume his orderly, devotional, falsified identity.

Out of Tawburn, up the A529, under the railway bridge and we are soon chuntering along the fringe of a raging North Sea. The wind is short of gale force, but the waves do not need much whipping to come crashing over the sea defences and on to the esplanade. We are the only idiots driving along this elemental stretch of road.

‘It’s a test of faith,’ I tease.

‘I have been out here in worse,’ says Dovidl, nerveless as ever. He leans forward on the wheel, peering through rain-slashed patches of windscreen clarity.

I suddenly remember where this road ends. It stops dead at the region’s number-one suicide spot, a promontory known as Deadly Head from which a dozen desperate souls, on average, leap each year to certain destruction. The edge is two hundred feet above the sea, which is studded with protruding rocks.

There used to be a fence along the edge, but it was knocked down so often by suicide couples in speeding cars that the council gave up trying to stop them. The only safety measure is an official sign saying, ‘Danger – Do Not Approach’, and a lifebelt stand that mocks the purpose for which it is intended. Beyond this point, hope can be safely abandoned.