And I did not look at the newspaper, so that I would not have to read any stories about Frances. I did not turn on the television for the same reason.

I did not respond to the message Johnny had left on my answering machine, or reply to the long, angry letter he pushed through the door.

I did not investigate the missed calls on my mobile, though I suspected they might have been from David.

I did not go back to the counselor, even though she had made it clear she thought it would be useful, not to say necessary.

I did not take up Gwen or Mary or Fergus or Joe on their offer to talk about what had happened, or describe in detail how the police had behaved toward me, particularly during the second interview I had had in Stockwell—their mixture of mounting incredulity and moral disgust. I was attempting to look ahead, move ahead, and the only way I knew how to do that was to blinker myself, choosing not to see what lay at all sides and behind me.

I did not let myself think of Frances, spread out under the desk with her sightless eyes staring up at me.

I did not insist to anyone who crossed my path that Greg had never known Milena. I understood at last that the past was gone and beyond my comprehension.

I did not cry.

I rolled up my two charts very tightly, bent them in the middle and stuffed them into the bin, along with carrot peelings and tea bags. I gave the menu card with Milena’s scrawl on it to the police, who didn’t seem very interested even when I pointed out how the “J” had been changed to a “G.”

Each night, I went to bed so exhausted by my frantic activity and by all my desperate evasions that I fell asleep as if I’d been hit on the head with a brick. If I dreamed, I didn’t remember of what. I wasn’t exactly ecstatic, but I was purposeful, like a soldier going into a battle or running away from one.

IN THE MIDDLE of one Thursday morning, just as I was about to go out to my shed, the phone rang. I decided to leave it, but after the ringing stopped, my mobile immediately started up. I looked at the caller’s ID before answering, in case it was someone I was trying to blank out of my consciousness.

“Fergus?”