She slammed the bedroom door shut, turning us both into silhouettes against the fading light filtering through the large open window. Barely in the room, she collapsed on the bed in front of me, said, “Smartphones are what cigarettes were for the great masses of people once addicted.” Reaching across her bed, she dipped her hand into the bottom drawer of her bedside cabinet and pulled out a single cigarette.

The things I want to say aren’t the sort of things you’re allowed to say out loud. You’re not even meant to think the things I think. But sometimes I think them anyway and sometimes I want to say them, so badly, that my chest fills with this irredeemable rage and I don’t know which way to look.

I’m a quiet man. I don’t talk much. I like a quiet drink. Sometimes a bit more, sometimes too much. I have this quiet spot at the Royal pub. Just a little spot around from the bar near the corner. They always serve me a beer as soon as I walk in. A bit of a nod, a bit of a wink, and then I slide on to the stool and rest my elbow on the bar. This is what I do. I watch people. They think I’m looking straight into my beer glass. Well, I am, sort of. But most of the time I am looking at people.

She was forty-seven when it began. Her head is locked towards the timber casement windows. Beyond the glass, a lake spreads out. A breeze rattles the shutters. It could be morning. Or late afternoon.

The children are not sure they want to go, but the long morning shadows of their parents cheerfully say it is an adventure. There is turquoise sparkling at the earth’s fingertips, there are sausages to brown on a fire. Together they will walk the arm of land called peninsula.

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A faint scent of coffee. The warm seat by the window. The light rumbling of a train ready to depart. These sensations had a very soothing effect that helped me relax. It was a fine beginning to my three-day journey across the country.

There’s a memory I have of fricassee. This may sound like the start of a joke but I am deadly serious. If you don’t know what fricassee is, congratulations. Also, too bad. I’m not going to describe it to you. Talking about the memory is bad enough without going through the recipe.

The ginger cat has killed again. All that’s left is a small pinkish organ lying on the carpet—everything else has been eaten. The cat climbs into Faye Bedwell’s lap and urges itself at her, working its hindquarters and pushing its face at her neck, making her dream of a foxtrot on a purple carpet and the pink neck of a dance partner. Her mouth opens with a thrill.

Ray puts his mouth up to the gap between the window and the car door-frame. Still, everything smells of burning. Smoky air grazes his throat, punches his lungs. His head spins and he slumps back into the driver’s seat. No matter what he does, he can’t stop his hands from shaking. I could go out, he thinks, find her.