‘We can’t do this here,’ she whispered.

‘No one would know,’ I said. ‘It’s been a while.’

She was silent for a moment, as if considering it. When I kissed her again she gently slid out from under me and straightened her dress.

‘Come on, Casanova. My feet are killing me.’

When we got home she went upstairs to prepare for bed. By the time I made my way up she was asleep. I slid in beside her and kissed her cheek. I smelt her perfume and stared at the ceiling, listening to her shallow breaths. And when sleep failed to take me I touched myself in the dark and imagined her and Helen together, their lips red and alive, their bodies intertwined and writhing among all of those black coats.

XIII

All through the night I think I can hear the patter of rainfall, but outside the sky sits clear and cloudless. As I lie in bed I hear the sound of running water falling from somewhere high above me.

In my mind I imagine a loose roof shingle and a thin stream running along exposed decking, the liquid pooling among the loft insulation and sagging the boards above our heads. I imagine the roof collapsing over us. A torrent of water. Yet when I take a flashlight and inspect the attic, running my hand along the ceiling’s protective membrane, it is dry to the touch. There are no water stains. No signs of any leak.

I descend the attic ladder and strain my ears in the darkness to try to pinpoint the source of the sound. I press myself against the cold of the wall and listen carefully, but it’s no use.

From the garage I take a ladder and use it to check the gutters. I remove clumps of leaves and other debris, but not enough to cause any blockage. I check the faucets again. I press my ear against toilet cisterns.

The longer I search for the source of the sound the more imperative its discovery becomes. I imagine a pipe bursting in the basement, the water rising until it is waist-high. I imagine sodden boxes floating on the black surface of the water. The remains of Simone’s wedding dress and Phineas’s toys. The keepsakes of our old life. Things we no longer have use for, but could never bring ourselves to part with.

I imagine landslides and earthquakes. Forest fires and tornadoes. I imagine the house reduced to rubble, to cinder, to ash. How easy it would be, I think, for an act of God to destroy our shared history. The thought turns in my stomach. It inches up my spine.

Upstairs I’m about to check the master bathroom when Simone emerges from the bedroom. ‘What time is it?’ she asks, one eye open, her hair tangled.

‘It’s late,’ I say. ‘I couldn’t sleep. Go back to bed.’

She nods and turns back into the dark of the bedroom and I am almost tempted to follow her. To take her into my arms. To free us temporarily from the burden of our collective sadness. But the thought of touching her feels invasive. There is a distance between us that seems to grow with each passing day.