Esther’s was the worst story he had ever heard; and to tell it was the worst task he had ever been faced with. He knew that she must suffer abominably in the telling, and in the dark future also. But it was there to be told: Esther wanted it to be told: he himself was to tell it; and it had to be told absolutely right – as Ryan had said, so many hours ago – if the whole vile tangle were to come out straight.

As he drove, the phrases started queueing up in his head: strong, authentic, matchless phrases, snatched out of the air, composed from shadow and ether, like Beethoven, like God … Back at the all-night bar, he lost them again – but there were always other phrases, only waiting to be snatched and lured from the infinite: lucid strings of them, clearer, more concise, more exact and vivid all the time, making up a story that would go round the world in explicit triumph.

“Esther Costello – The Truth,” he said to himself – or it might have been aloud, for the yawning barman frowned at him over the top of his newspaper. He swallowed a last drink, and went out into the cold deserted street, lit now by pale shadowless light from the east. Then he drove to the Star-Telegram, doused his head in cold water, washed and straightened up, and sat down at his typewriter in the empty city room. The very act of taking the cover off the machine, and reaching for a wad of paper, was like the prelude to some fantastic play, which he was to write and to watch at the same time.

He typed: ‘Costello. One. Grant’, and drew a deep breath.

Immediately, lavishly, the magic words began to tumble from the air again, slipping within his brain, coursing down his arms, leaking into freedom and triumph from his fingers poised above the keys.

Towards nine o’clock that morning, when he was halfway through, the room around him started to fill up: the cleaners came and went, the copy boys began a slow version of the activities which would later rise to a bustling inter-office crescendo; the men who had spent the night in the various police precincts scuffed their way in, bleary-eyed and resigned to human frailty: the morose characters condemned to cover openings and lectures assembled for their day’s assignments. Harry Grant, sitting preoccupied at his desk, was widely greeted, mostly on a caustic note.

“Look who’s here!”

“Buster, the boy reporter.”

“Trying to catch the boss’ eye?”

“If you just pay the rent, you’ll have a home to go to.”

“What’s the novel going to be called?”

“Wait till the union hears about this.”

“Get yourself a girl, Harry – then you won’t be here so early.”

He smiled automatically at each greeting, but none of it interrupted him or threw him out of his stride; he felt supremely confident – light-headed with the sleepless night, exalted by the outpouring of words. His hands were composer’s hands, tapping out on the keyboard a flowing, cascading masterpiece … By the time that Ryan, the news editor, came in, Harry was nearly through. The pile of sheets lay on his desk, seeming to promise to him and to Esther a complete and blessed release, as soon as they were finished.