He gave me a big grin with what I perceived as unearned intimacy. I had never cared for Fat Phil’s assumption of some unspoken fraternity between us, his obvious belief that we were rather alike. As if we – Tara’s no-visible-income spouse and her driver – were both on the payroll. Fat Phil grinned broadly as Buddy lifted his leg for an early wet on his favourite lamppost.

Fat Phil considered me with barely disguised hilarity.

The stay-at-home husband with the successful missus! Walking the dog! Who is taking a leak!

You can see how that would tickle the likes of Fat Phil.

Buddy and I headed off down the street on our walk, Fat Phil gave me a thumbs up and I decided not to tell him that Tara was sleeping off her jet lag and he was going to have to wait a while. Fat Phil knew the drill as well as me.

Tara did what Tara wanted to do.

Buddy and I were nearing the end of our road when I saw him.

The man who wanted to destroy my family with his driving.

The dumb bastard in the Smart car.

He took a rubber-screeching fast right into our street and slammed the accelerator to the floor. If Marlon or Tara had stepped into the street at that moment, he would not have been able to stop.

He probably thought he was a respectable man. A decent, caring man. He probably fretted about plastic in the ocean, the planet heating up. Greta Thunberg’s granddad. He no doubt gave money to charity. He probably had a weakness for all those pious hashtags that bloom on social media. And yet he drove far too fast down the street where our son took my hand to walk to school.

He drove through the place where we lived like it was some kind of race track. As I watched his tail lights fade, my vision blurred with tears, and they were tears of rage that anyone would dare put my family in harm’s way.

I was glad it was still dark.

I was glad our street was empty.

I was glad nobody could see me.

Because I knew I had murder in my eyes.

6

Tara

It began immediately on my return.

I had spent my last day in Tokyo avoiding James Caine, ignoring his multiple text messages asking me why I wasn’t at the conference, and later the hideously matey voicemails asking if we could meet for lunch or dinner because he knew a great tempura place in Ebisu and blah blah blah, and finally the crass note pushed under my door from the hotel’s message desk asking if I was up for a repeat performance of last night. But I stayed away from the hotel all day, losing myself among the teeming crowds in that infinite city, and I told myself that it was easy enough to avoid James Caine, and to keep blanking him until he got the message, and to never see him again in my life. We have grown so used to cutting people from our lives with just a push of the button. Delete. Block. Mute. Unfollow. That’s what I was doing as I wandered alone in Tokyo, and that was the unspoken message I sent to James Caine as my pinging phone remained unanswered while I stood with Japanese office workers staring in wonder at the great pink mass of cherry blossom that was everywhere in Tokyo. Delete. Block. Mute. Unfollow. I returned to the hotel near midnight, and the door to his room remained mercifully closed as I silently, and quickly, walked by. I had to get up very early because flights to London leave Tokyo around dawn. I was so relieved when I finally sank into my British Airways business class seat that I had a glass of champagne before breakfast, and then another. Delete. Block. Mute. Unfollow. Made it! Or so I thought.