It seemed to relate to what they had talked about, Wordsworth’s idea of perception and imagination somehow being involved in the creation of memory, and perhaps Linda’s own thoughts about how memory transforms rather than presents an accurate snapshot of experience. He sensed a certain distance and detachment in the poem—she wasn’t confronting the thought or experience head on, viscerally—but he liked how the sound and imagery of her language seemed to fill out the idea behind the words. It wasn’t something he could paraphrase, but perhaps, he thought, that was what a good poem should do: express something that could be expressed no other way. That was why so much of it was so damn difficult to understand. Like most people, he probably tried too hard to translate it into rational meanings instead of letting it perform its magic. Not mean, but be.

Well, perhaps the book had given him some insight into poetry, but he wasn’t sure whether it had given him any into Linda Palmer. She remained an enigma to him. He had no doubt that all the feelings were still there, or the memory of them, even after all this time—rage, humiliation, shame, guilt, fear—but they were preserved under an obsidian veneer. It remained to be seen how thick that veneer was.

Banks closed the book, glanced at his watch and finished his pint. Time to go. He took one last look around the cozy bar. He’d like to have another, linger a little longer over Linda’s poetry, but he was driving, and he knew it would be a long day tomorrow.

ANNIE AND Gerry stepped over the outstretched legs of the two youths and walked through the open door of the takeaway. They had already smelled the tomato sauce, peppers, onions and grilled meat and spices from a distance, but the aroma was even stronger inside, with hot cooking oil added to the mix. The small space was brightly lit. There were only two small wobbly Formica-topped tables, as the business was clearly predominantly takeaway and customers weren’t encouraged to hang about.

One man stood behind the counter talking to another in a cook’s white uniform. The grills and ovens were off to one side, mostly hidden, and the wall behind the counter housed displays of crisps and chocolate bars. A glass-fronted fridge was filled with a selection of fizzy drinks.

The man behind the counter smiled and asked, “What can I do for you two lovely ladies?”

“See, at least someone around these parts has some manners,” Annie said to Gerry. She smiled sweetly back at the man. “I’ll have a slice of margherita please, and my friend here will have a doner kebab.”

“Coming right up, my lovelies.”