Gareth says you killed him.

Helen was sat in the kitchen, looking tired. It was Gareth's joke, she said. I was unsure how far the humour went, so I pretended to enter the joke.

It explains my strange behaviour, I suppose.

Helen laughed, her mind clearly elsewhere. There are moments with Helen, the warmth rising on her skin, the freckles, perhaps the felicity of gesture, that incites me to clasp the whole length of her leg and with gentle intent, ease my tongue into her sphincter.

I left early and went to see my father. He receives his medical results today and I went over, partly to avoid him sending me the results in the post, and partly to experience the wordless trance of driving to him. He was wearing his godawful tie and a grin the size of England. Having pancreatic cancer, a midlife affliction, has cheered him greatly. He now feels even younger and, what's more, at his age the disease slows down and can take years to finish off. He can barely walk on his bloated legs but we stared at each other, roundly happy, grinning, bracing ourselves for a few more years of tennis and cool drinks on the terrace. What he did not say then or admit for the rest of my visit was that, plainly, he's already had the cancer for years. As I drove back, unsure if he was in denial or simply staving off my concern, I pulled into a service station. The coffee was weak but steaming hot. I gulped it down and in the searing pain of my throat, I no longer cared for either interpretation. The desire to visit this as a pain upon myself will last for days. I got home, rang George. He was out. I went to bed early, prefering to plan it.