The vitriol, posted by strangers, made him quiver. These people, who knew nothing of him, and nothing about the truth of his exchanges with a student seeking help, were ready to brand him a liar, an abuser, a misogynist, a rapist, deploying every hashtag Lucas had heard of supporting such themes, and many he hadn’t. A statement, asserting his innocence and apologising for any harm inadvertently caused, had served only to pour oil on the fire. They were baying for his blood; and though Lucas knew they were just a faceless rabble, unaccountable except to their own consciences, unlikely ever to cross anything but his virtual path, the effect was like a detonation of his hopes, of his very being. Once proud of his two thousand or so followers – not bad for a literary dinosaur, he liked to joke – he now closed the account, then turned off his phone altogether.

It was gone ten o’ clock, but Lucas knew there was no question of sleep. Every creak in the flat, every rattle of a windowpane, made him jump. Barely having eaten since the lunch at Ralph and Catherine’s the day before, he still had no appetite. Forcing himself to consider the contents of his fridge anyway – an open pack of ham, some wilting broccoli, a piece of crusty cheese, two eggs – he dug the least spongy apple from the bottom drawer and slumped back on the sofa to watch the late news. A suicide bomber in Kabul; a minor earthquake somewhere in China; shortage of international aid in Yemen. Lucas gnawed mindlessly through the soft fruit, thinking that at least his woes were too paltry to make national headlines. Or were they? With a sudden sickening dread of what might follow, he turned the television off too.

Music, then. Fumbling, Lucas found the console for his speaker system and scrolled through his playlist to the preludes and fugues. But for once there was no solace to be had there either. Even Bach had let him down.

Lucas knew what he would do next. He had been aware of it all along as the only course of action, waiting in the wings of his mind, requiring only that he turn his head and acknowledge it. First, he had to email Heidi, in order to rule out the possibility of her deciding to try and communicate with him. Not due back from the off-grid excursion to the Black Forest until the following night, it was unlikely, but he couldn’t take the risk. If she messaged or rang and he didn’t respond, there would be ructions. Heidi would smell a rat, bombard him with notifications, try harder, get upset. She would almost certainly conclude that the verdict he had assured her was ‘still pending’ – part of a confidently fake, holding email sent after Ralph’s the day before – had come through, with some grisly resolution.