Overcast...Gareth stared at the sky, as if today's weather had been on his mind a few weeks now and so, finally, he was the right man to make a proper appraisal of it. For me, talking about the weather is bad manners but with Gareth it means only one thing: he wants you to know that there is something you don't know. I went straight to Helen's room and let myself in. You didn't even say sorry. What? Of course I was. It was obvious I was sorry. How is anything obvious unless you say it? I felt sorry, you knew I was sorry. I felt...ashamed. Well shame is about you, sorry is about me. Shame? I said ashamed. There's a difference. Helen put her hand on her hip. My time was running out but I couldn't let her pin all this on me. Shame? I hadn't felt that since the millenium. Gareth staring at the overcast sky. Whatever I said, something told me I shouldn't apologise because, very likely, it was already too late. Only outrage would save me. Absolute rage against a situation, a society, a civilization that could make two intelligent people so petty. I longed to be rolling on the banks of the Thames with Nell Gwynn. I imagined the rage coming, then let it go, as if I had yet to find the situation, or the person, who warranted it. Sighing gently, I left the room. Where had the rage gone? If I can't summon that, what can I do?

Ah, sad news. Our Florentine shoemaker, Stefano Bemer, has died. I called Thom, he was devestated. He'd only just received his pair of Derby loafers that we ordered. They came in march, six months later than expected, and we did wonder if something was wrong because Stefano's shoes never took more than a year to arrive. Well, we' ll have to visit the workshop, check out the apprentices. Or, possibly, the usurping relatives. Let's hope they cut the cloth. But if they don't, make no mistake, Thom and I will have to spread our wings. But I'll never forget that day on the Rue des Trois Freres, all those years ago, wearing your blue Oxford brogues, and the idea I had of myself then. So long Stefano.

I like women who can talk about houses. As a man, my opening gambits have always been property, its value, its maintenance. The plumbing, the wiring. For myself, I don't give a shit about any of it and I don't care if a woman gives a damn, either, but one can always measure a woman's self -respect to the very extent that she can make a decent conversation about the subject. Because, always, when we talk of houses we are talking of our bodies. All this was on my mind last night because George invited me to an art gallery, a private view in the centre of town.

No-one does nudes anymore, only beginners, and the very old. So, for lack of a decent nude I always look out  for pictures of houses. But there was none of that, either. The artist was a working class hero from up north. He'd already glared at me twice. Carefully, I removed me tweed jacket.  The art was mainly a cubist distortion of heavy industry. Likely, I had walked straight into the artists' father issues. Certainly, I was a generaton older than nearly everyone. George was mingling, on heat. I cannot bear envy. But were not my father and I the poorest in the street? I felt the artist wouldn't care for that information so I decided to orientate my evening around avoiding him. I would rotate in a precise contra-indication to his movements. And with that plan, my evening began.

Firstly, the artist moved to the left and so, moving to the right, I had a brief but pleasant conversation with an Australian man. The artist lurched forwards and so, stepping back, I nearly knocked over the pistacchio nuts. But his next movement, circling back on himself, resulted in me talking again with the Australian, who took it all in his stride. Next, the artist moved quickly to the right and so, making adjustments, I turned and introduced myself to a young brunette. She was in her early twenties. By and large I don't like young people, but I was enjoying this game, and the lunar pallor of the girl's complexion reminded me of a lost, teenage love. And besides the girl, Alanis, made a good fist of describing the price of city rents relative to suburban and rural rentage. The artist was looking at me but hadn't moved, so I carried on with Alanis. She could talk about house prices, but made it clear it wasn't her main interest. I allowed her to own this moment, making her self conscious. But she had a confidence in her sensitivity so her curiosity was keen, and alive. I wasn't overly surprised when she suddenly asked  my occupation.

I'm dreaming of tunnels, she said, at last.

I could have spoken until the early hours about this but, nearly thirty years older, the perjorative was hers, not mine, so I asked her to elaborate. She described the tunnels in some detail, the symmetry of them, the relentlessness, the beauty of the vanishing point. I was about to mention the meaning of the tunnel in dream imagery but George was at my elbow, muttering something. I couldn't hear him but I was aware of the artist. He hadn't moved so neither did I.  But he was glaring again. George clasped my arm, look, that's his sister. Oh come on,  George! This is a cosmopolitan city in southern England, not Sicily, but actually, he had a point. The artist was clearly not happy with me. Of course, he didn't know it, but if he were to step backwards and turn around then, by the rules of my little game, I wouldn't be in a position to talk to his sister.

In dreams, a tunnel is one of the most significant symbols, and from the way you describe it I think you are very attached to the processes, perhaps more than even the meaning of-

The artist had narrowed his eyes, glaring at me, but was still in the same position. Look, said George, let's go. I refused to move. I was having a deeply meaningful conversation and the brother could stare at me all day and night. I would not move unless he did. But something in George, in his voice, in the defeated tones, made me understand that my allegiance should be with him, as men of a certain age. I gave Alanis my card and George and I left.

Straight home, into the kitchen. Would I ever forgive George this? Was it jealousy? The whole fucking thing is a load of fucking bollocks, I said loudly, without really knowing what I meant, or what it referred to. On the table was the package from Hamburg, I tore it open and, indeed, it was the eleven volumes of Walter's Secret Life, and it was the Chorier, too. I carried on ripping up the package, throwing strips around the kitchen. AXEL? I'M ON IT!

This morning a heavy parcel arrived, post mark Hamburg. Placing it on the table, I continued with my toast. If this was Walter's Secret Life, then Axel had sent it prematurely. First, he wasn't dead, and secondly, I hadn't earnt it. The package was substantial, well packed, and while I didn't recognise the handwriting as Axel's, those capital letters could easily be Gertrude's. And so I left for work aware that opening this package could set in motion a stage of my life to which I hadn't wholly consented. Like Thom's diary, there were things I didn't need to know about, not now. Was this a form of wisdom? Is it not wiser, sometimes, to manage a situation rather than understand every detail? Did I really want to spend the next few years with Walter's gushing, ejaculating servant girls, even if it was in the service of feminism? It's absolutely last battle? Would anyone thank me? I mean, really?

I waved at Helen and breezed into my room, ready to face my first client. Was I late? Client L, my mistress of the literal truth was already there, sat in her work clothes, sharp in a blue jacket. I turned away, the yellow of her blouse was even sharper, making her hard on the eye. I opened the window, hoping she'd remove the jacket.

With her work persona in the room she spoke of her current project, the funding for the completion of which was being delayed by unknown but undoubtedly dark forces. And then finally, Roger, her love, now in Australia. But she was overarticulating everything, as if I were merely another subordinate who needed firm, but careful handling. I gazed at my shoes awhile.

Anyway, it's only MHC.

Sorry, what is?

MHC genes...Major Histo-compatibility Complex.

I was happy to look at my shoes. Thom had done a good job on them, as it goes.  I wasn't going to buy into her suspense.

That's all that love is. MHC genes. We just fall in love with people who have different MHC to our own so that we can give our offspring an immune boost. And as I don't want children anyway, what does it matter?

At forty- six the chances of her having children were not as optional as presented though, fair enough, I was not up with the latest research. I longed for a deep well to open at my feet. Client L.'s intelligence is born of defensiveness and today, in her work clothes, she had all the armour she'd ever need. So instead of allowing her to dig us both into a depression, I decided to tell her, and perhaps myself, a story. She checked her watch, as if I were already boring her.

There was a reflective and respected Albanian man, Nuri Bey, who married a wife much younger than himself.

One evening, he returned home earlier than usual and a faithful servant came to him and said, Your wife, our mistress, is acting suspiciously. She has in her room a huge chest, large enough to hold a man, but she will not allow me, your oldest retainer, to look inside.

Nuri went to his wife's room and found her sitting beside the massive wooden box.

Will you show me what's in the chest, he asked?

Because of the suspicion of a servant, or because you do not trust me?

Why don't we just open it?

I do not think it possible, she said.

Is it locked?

Yes.

Where is the key?

She held it up. Dismiss the servant and I will give the key to you.

The servant was dismissed. The woman handed over the key and left the room, obviously troubled.

Nuri Bey thought for a long time. Then he called four gardeners from his estate. Together they carried the chest by night unopened to a distant part of the grounds, and buried it.

The matter was never referred to again.

I checked my watch, perhaps to show client L. the story was finished.

But if he doesn't make her happy then he could spend the rest of his life burying chests in the garden.

Maybe, I said, gently.

Later, I had coffee alone in the kitchen. I thought of the package on my kitchen table. Nuri Bey would go home and bury it in his garden. He was a family man, not a liberator of women. Yes, indeed, sometimes in life we must put our intelligence into preserving mysteries, not exposing them. With this thought I darted quickly up the stairs, quietly passed Helen's room, and couldn't help but wonder, as I entered my own, if Axel had remembered the Chorier.

Several weeks ago I ordered a picture. Did anyone ever love women as much as Courbet? Finally it arrived, yesterday, Woman With Parrot. My intention was to hang it in the kitchen at work, hoping it would inspire Helen and I around the kettle. But since throwing up everywhere maybe my role as interior decorator is somewhat tarnished. And yet, Gareth was unduly kind to me that morning. He helped me clean the floor, ran my trousers, then my shirt, under a tap. He knew where all the disinfectants were kept. He performed these jobs quietly, calmly, as if he were always cleaning the terrible mess of other men. We've worked together for nearly fifteen years but it wasn't only a kindness of longevity. I was reminded that the overriding impulse of Gareth's life is to expose his errant father, to reveal to his mother the terrible sins of man. And yet, of course, when the man is revealed, or confesses everything, or is found throwing up in a kitchen, then he finds an unexpected pity, a tenderness for the man he's hounded, and in that moment Gareth finds a soul. Born of pity, but no matter, a soul. So, contrary to so much evidence, I had thrown up in front of the right person, and was honoured he could help me. In keeping, he quietly mopped the floor, washed my trousers, then the shirt and will not speak of it again. I will thank him later, or buy him a piece of fruit.

Thom came for the afternoon with his diary under his arm. We were meant to be fishing off the coast but as I made him lemonade in the kitchen we banged heads. He seemed to have grown taller, more angular, all sharp elbows and quick gestures and so when, accidentally, we banged heads next to the fridge it left me, unaccountably, in an awful mood, as if we were mirroring the others' frustration and even a clash of heads couldn't return us to ourselves. So I was happy to drop the fishing and doze in the garden while he furiously scribbled in the diary. Yet, while half asleep I was also aware that Thom wanted a reaction. His diary writing had become almost performative. He would lurch forwards, backwards, then wave his arms around as if were conducting an orchestra rather than writing his most inner thoughts. Then suddenly he coughed loudly and went indoors. His diary was left open on the table. I wondered if he was now watching me from a window so I pretended to fall into a deep sleep. Clearly, there was something he wanted to tell me, but I would have to read his diary to know it, and all the while he would be watching me from an upstairs window, possibly filming it. What had happened to my son? I was toying with a despair for him while balancing it with admiration for his cunning when, suddenly, he burst out the back door with a pair of shoes in his hands. Now, shoes matter to us. When I lived in the family home Thom and I used to polish our shoes every sunday night. It was a quiet, soulful ritual and one I tried to maintain with him since the divorce. He looked almost distraught.

What happened to your shoes?

I have a pregnant client, Thom. She threw up over them.

He nodded, weighing this information slowly. For a moment it seemed as if his recent intensity had given him a clear insight into the truth or falsity of everything I said. In fact, the word client had thrown him and he was actually trying to remember what job I do. We looked at the shoes, as if they held the truth. I hadn't noticed, but he was also carrying the shoe polish kit. I always chose a light tan for the brogues. You'll need a darker hue for that, he said.

Thom? You're right.

And so, he kneeled down and we set to. Me, polishing my shoes for the morning and him, for the new school term, a few weeks away.

Helen's Polo was outside, no one in the kitchen. Slowly, I went up the stairs and gently pushed her door. She was at the window, watering her plant.

Therapy taught me to fight back, she said.

It taught me to forgive, I replied, too quickly.

Was this even true? Only in the most metaphysical sense. Had I not forgiven God for leaving me motherless at nine, for leaving me and my Dad to bring each other up? My forgiveness had been for the facticity of life itself. But I had never been in Helen's position. I had never been in a room with a watering can, trying to forgive a real person. But how much water did this plant need? I considered taking her elbow, and imagined myself gently lifting the can.

Ah, she was crying. What had I done? Had she not mentioned a pervy uncle at a workshop? Had I regressed her? She put the can down and came towards me. This was good, I could work with this, turn my unlovely grope into a deeper process of healing other, far worse traumas. Perhaps she had even precipitated the whole incident? Was I also the victim here? Possibly the main victim? Pulled in by my collar, doomed to repeat her unresolved issues?

She reached out to me, as if she wanted to feel the quality of my shirt, a gesture familiar to our foreplay. I wiped a tear from her cheek, the space condemning us to gentleness. I took a step back as if to prove I could restrain myself. Was that wrong? Her eyes and smile returned to her face. She stepped back, too, retreating into ancient hurt and, simultaneously, the defensive team protecting it. Smiling she said, shall we talk later? I was done for. I left quickly, as if Gareth were there, ushering me out the door.

Yesterday I cancelled my clients. This morning I walked by the sea. But surely that's why it was invented, no? To accompany our moods? It yields to everyone who needs a friend. A friend? I needed a lawyer.

Sweat on my neck. I took off my coat, then my jumper, my trousers, my tee shirt was soaking. Standing on the pebbles, I knew my pants looked ridiculous. Fuck it, I took them off too, and ran crashing into the sea. Why did I not think of this yesterday?

The gulls were screaming. What terrors did they see at dawn? Last nights dream, like a mist trying to condense on my brain, but no. It wouldn't settle. I swam out further, as if the dream lay on the horizon, near the coast of France. The shrill of the gull, pulverising itself. I turned back and began to remember the dream.

I was in a gallery. Musee d' Orsay? It was a Degas nude, one of his women bathers, washing herself in an old tin bath. She was leaning over, scrubbing her back. But I wasn't alone with this Degas. A security guard was standing to my left.

How much does it cost? I asked, as if the saturday boy had forgotten to price it up.

Thirty seven pence, he said. I thought this was probably beyond my means but I knew there was some money rattling in my pocket, so I took it out. Mmm, possibly. Could he see his way to doing it for thirty pence? He nodded, as if resigned. There were a lot of my kind around these days, and if he was going to make a living, he'd have to suffer it. Thirty pence it was. So I pulled out the pennies but the coins were not coins, they were Gareth's teeth. Slowly I counted out thirty of my colleague's teeth, the security guard watched me closely, then scooped the teeth into his own pocket. Carefully, I took the Degas off the wall, nodded again to the guard, and walked out.

I'll interpret the dream later, I thought. And so, feeling as though that were the only thing left in my life, I dried myself with my pants.

Who goes there? An early morning jogger with his headphones. How many cocoons does a man need? But even he is sweating, the drops falling into his tragic mouth.

No, I have to face Helen. I mean, what's the fuss. We've been friends, colleagues, lovers. What's a grab and a feel, next to that, all that history?What's the worst that can happen? And she has a big heart, Helen. Under a certain legal demeanour she has a wide appreciation of human need, and it's excess. But I did wonder, as I threw my pants back into the sea, that maybe she reserves that grace for her clients, possibly not her friends, definitely not her lovers. I really was in the shit.

Two days of brandy.

In the kitchen, my hands shaking. The hangover had yet to start. The floor was rolling under me and I could only gather every third word Helen was saying. It must have been 9 o'clock. I was stinking drunk and could've peeled wallpaper with my breath and I wasn't sure she had noticed. She was talking about a mutual friend, then another and another, till it felt there were thirty people having coffee in the kitchen with us. My mind's not right. My brain was kissed with an insanity and only by clasping Helen's arse could anything be salvaged, and so I lunged at her. My God! She pushed me off, splattering coffee all over my shirt. What are you doing...? I was staring at her, as if searching for answers, panting like a dog, perhaps dimly aware that dogs could be forgiven these things. Get away from me! The more I stared, the greater the space for her anger. I had to leave the room, quickly. But some slow awareness that I may have assaulted her prevented me moving. Oh fucking hell, she said. That felt like the height of her anger and so possibly if I carried on staring at her she would leave the room and, in a week or two, I could plead insanity. She walked out of the kitchen and Gareth came in. My best hope was to vomit over my shoes, so I did.

Client R.

How long will we play this game?

She has colour for every occasion but I always felt her autumnal choices were worn for me and so it was, my desire became an impatience.

You're pregnant.

What! No I am not!

Yes you are.

I am not! Oh god, that's actually...

Yes you are.

So humiliating!

She simulated such wonder, shaking her head, such bafflement. Oh god. The insincerity of her display confirmed the pregnancy, but I also sensed her joy in being uncovered. I began to wonder if, after all these years, this was the start of my seduction. But I could still hear my own voice:

I have been on this planet for forty eight years. I know when a woman is pregnant and if forty eight years doesn't help me then I have also written a book on the subject. Why will you not tell me? It's wasting my time and your money and, frankly, I have had enough. It's the professor's baby, isn't it?

No, it isn't.

Yes, it is.

No, it isn't.

So you admit you're pregnant. It's the professor's isn't it?

No, it's not.

Yes, it is.

No...Ok, yes, it is. It's HIS ALRIGHT!

It was the most deeply unprofessional session of my whole working life.

Axel? I will write the book.

There was no point in calling the hospitals in Hamburg. Axel has the money and  reach to have every base covered. Besides, I wasn't remotely surprised to find, ringing his home on the Reeperbahn, that he was released from hospital, recuperating, taking calls and, while feeling tired and weak, a bit chesty and spleenish, absolutely fully recovered. If I am going to be manipulated by anyone on this earth, I'd rather it were Axel. Like his demented niece in Berlin, this brush with death was entirely fictional. But it got me thinking. Perhaps I owed him something, perhaps I owed the world? Had I not taken enough pleasure from it all? I wasn't worried about losing my free pass to the boat party. A lapse in taste, possibly, or a loss of vigour would count against me there. Probably I'd have to commit an historical atrocity to register my presence amongst the international financers, thieves, princes and diplomats who charm his circle. No, if anything, I am considered a balanced, serious, a decently withdrawn presence on the boat. And besides, Axel needs me there almost as a totem of conscience. I am one of those he chooses to share a few words with before the festivities begin. We always mention the lunatic niece in Berlin. As a nod to my calling, he requires my assurance that he is doing his best by her, poor thing. He will close his eyes solemnly and, from this set piece, our enormous transgressions can begin.  No, no. I wasn't concerned about losing my pass to the boat party. But Axel's imaginary illness reminded me of my father dying, the escalation of his last hours. How can anyone really fake anything? If this was not the end, then it was the image of the end. If anything is serious, it's the games we play. And so it was, I called Axel, soaring with an almost transpersonal sense of owing him, if not the world, something true of myself.

Oh, by the way, I'll throw in the Chorier, he said.

2nd message. George was cooking supper. Was I hungry? Since ignoring Axel's message, I had felt heavy, inert. I was reminded of my days smoking the O. It was as though I were a quarter pipe down. This mild trance was also faintly voyeuristic and I kept checking the neighbours windows for a glance of flesh. Before going to George I took a brandy into the garden and lay on the grass. From the corner of my eye I could see my fruit trees required attention. The rain had swelled the buds to breaking. The secateurs were here, on the grass somewhere. Should I prune or not? I allowed the weight of the decision to pass.

I liked to watch George fuss around in the kitchen. I gathered he enjoyed being watched, too, for he always seemed to have a new apron. Obviously, we had come a long way since we met at the members club. It was an absolutely sumptuous feast of chilli crab with a Rojak salad, Singaporean recipes that his Thai girlfriend had given him. She had recently returned to Thailand and he was happy to report they were getting on better than ever. When we met, George and I were bonding in despair over our divorces and, even now, irony was the air we breathed. Then, a misunderstanding. We were drinking the last of the brandy when George said he was going to the kitchen to get desert. I said no, surely not, haven't we had enough? He sat down, his face crumpled. I realise now, driving home, that he hadn't said anything about desert. He had been talking about Thailand- and going back there to find another girlfriend.

3rd message.  Guten Abend. Ich fordere, dass ihr freund Axel im krankenhaus. Er ist sehr krank aber er sagt, sie mussen sich keine Gedanken. Er wird bald besser. Danke.

This was bad, whatever it was, it was bad. Gertrude was no bearer of good news. It was late and I was drunk but I rang Thom. Serena answered, he was in bed, it's late. Why is it always Serena answering the door, the phone, pulling the blinds. It was while picturing the servility of this relationship in sexual terms that my heart leapt with joy. Thom had grabbed the phone. What is it, Dad? I need you to translate something for me. Wait, I'll get changed. No, Thom, we'll do it over the phone. I still need to get changed. I'll call you back, he said. Why did he need to dress properly? I had an image of him in twenty years as an international spy. Maybe he was checking out the hallway, listening for possible lesbianism, making a safe room for me, his agent. The image felt like a memory. Dad, shoot. I played the message down the line. The force of his concentration seemed to weaken my grasp on the phone.

It's Gertrude! Oh no, she says Axel's ill.

The news upset Thom so I tried steering the conversation back to him, to school, his Holocaust project.  After all, he had just got changed. He mentioned a rained off hockey practice. Hockey? Actually, Thom. I was drunk, interrupting him. Can you give me a word for word translation? I played the tape again.

Good Evening. I am calling to say that your friend Axel is in hosptial. He is very ill but he says you must not worry about him. He says he will be better soon. Thank you.

The red light of the ansaphone pulses in the corner. It's Axel. I am getting older here, he drawls, as if he has nothing else in life but to wait in a dressing gown for me to write his books. What chapter are you on? If nothing else, at least he would negotiate. I would insist on the Chorier. Truth is, my problem with writing a book about Walter's Secret Life was that I didn't care if the book was fact or fiction. It's painful to associate myself with a rather modern malaise but the truth or otherwise of events, the objective realities of existence,  held no interest for me. In fact, I find history, like his pale cousin, truth, I find them somewhat retarded relatives. They tend to have dull, reedy voices, a somewhat tragic dress sense and they rarely ever look you in the eye. Sure, I am happy to shake hands with them now and again, at quarterly gatherings or in administrative buildings, but I don't want to live with them. I care only for the phenomenological working of life on consciousness, and consciousness upon life, and very often I don't care for that, either. Only soul. When we are with soul then we require no refuge. So what did I care if My Secret Life was God's honest sexual truth or if it was eleven volumes of unbridled fantasy from the demented Victorian brain of , most likely, Sir Henry Spencer Ashbee? I did not care. It's a ripping yarn, I said to myself, like life. And with that, I put the phone down, his message still pulsing. Axel could wait a while longer.

Helen is back!

So, having thrashed around in the bath to one of the more ferocious quartets, I combed my hair and tried to compose a suitable face with which to greet her. I wanted to convey several things at once. First, a measure of sorrow at her failed romance. However, the sorrow should co-mingle with an eyebrow of real surprise that Ross could ever have treated her thus. All of which should be underpinned with a lusty pleasure at seeing her again but with an overriding awareness that these things take time. In truth, driving to work the long way, I wasn't sure my face was up to all this. On entering the house I could hear Helen in the kitchen with Gareth- was he lowering his voice?- so I decided to go straight to my room, and flew up the stairs.

In fact, it allowed Helen to play a solicitous role. Within minutes she was knocking at my door with two cups of coffee. She smiled, settling into the client chair. Could I ever love her? Certainly, one of the disasters of my marriage was Karen's failure to make me hot drinks.

What a fool I am.

We are all fools for love, I said, imagining the wide expanse of my own stupidity.

Yes, but you said this would happen.

What do you mean?

She looked at me evenly. You knew what Ross was like.

I never knew a thing, Helen.  I'd never met him, until you introduced us. As far as I was aware this was absolutely true. And anyway, whatever I happened to think of him I would have kept to myself. Hah, Gareth, his lowered voice. I made a mental note to break his spine. Helen smiled faintly, as if also understanding that her charge was trying to get me in trouble. Gareth's meddling was, as ever, born of his overweening need for Helen's approval. How could she not warm to it? But in the quiet of this moment, she allowed me to understand that if I were to indulge him, like a father to our difficult child, then there would be rewards for me later, in her room, possibly at the days end.

I love her grey hair. She often wears it up, allowing a few loose, stray hairs to beguile me.

At lunchtime from my window, I saw her leave.

Halfday, clearly.

8 am, client L.

One of the disadvatages of saturday morning sessions is that I never see client L. in her work clothes. She arrived in jeans and a blouse. I couldn't begin to describe the blouse but her purple coat was of interest- is that not the colour of mourning? Nevertheless, I find that clients who arrive in their work attire will also bring their essential self image, and that is the most revealing of masks. I made a mental note to arrange our next session for the friday.

So, how can I access soul, then?

She sounded interested, genuinely curious, and I sensed why she was good at her job and, clearly, was capable of bringing out the best in her team of male scientists. But I wasn't having any of it. The phrase itself annoyed me. Access soul? One downloads it? Like many people, she has the impatience of someone who spends hours on a computer. But she was trying to enter my world so I took a breath, smiled, and grabbed my Dante.

I am going to read some poetry. Canto XIII. Now, I will read this to myself, for my pleasure, for about fifteen minutes. You will do something else entirely. I gave her a pen and piece of paper. You are right handed so I want you to write a letter to yourself as you were when you were eight years old. And you write it with your left hand. Now, I will be sitting here, immersed in the poetry. You may flicker across my mind once or twice, I may even glance at you, but you will not be in my thoughts.

Always the good student, client L. began writing. And true to my word, I was soon in the seventh circle of hell with Dante and, apart from glancing at her ankles, I never gave her a thought. After fifteen minutes I looked over and saw her blouse was soaked in tears.

We arrived at Auschwitz at lunchtime. Luckily, we had made sandwiches.

Past the coaches and the car parks, we soon found the iron gates. We preferred to go alone rather than hire a guide. That meant buying a brochure and we were both happy to stand awhile and do that. I had read in a sunday magazine that in the grounds of Auschwitz, such is the reverence for the horror, that even the birds don't sing in the camp. It's not true. As we stood in the queue, Thom, ever the keen orinthologist, managed to discern the sound of several bitterns, a sandpiper, a ruddy turnstone, as well as a whiskered, an artic, and even a common tern. I demurred over the turnstone, but Thom insisted. Eventually he leaned into me and, finding his sense of occassion said, maybe you're right.

We saw the pile of spectacles, the mountain of human hair, the gas chambers, crematoria and finally, after taking the bus, Birkenau. There was nothing to say then, or now. We were bearing witness, and that was good. But if anything can be said it was that the horror was, actually, imaginable. It was there, in the monumental will it took for a prisoner to carve a picture on the execution wall. But still, for most of the day I had no idea why we were here. We had no family ties, no friends, nothing connecting us to the horror. We may have invented- for Thom's teacher- an Uncle Ben who may or may not have died in Auschwitz, but it was a lie. I didn't know yet what the lie would reveal of us.

As he had foretold, Thom found the prisoner art a solace. He stared rather too long at picture entitled ' Father & Son', but no matter. He made pertinent comments on various others. But I wasn't satisfied with the art. Sometimes it is hard to apprehend even a piece of toast, let alone historical genocide. But I was hankering for more, a deeper horror than the set pieces. Sensing that was technological, or logistical, I spent a long time in the huge gas chambers and in the tiny spaces of Block 11. I was vying for perspective, seeking out windows, calibrating numbers, barracks, cattle trucks.   Finally, I stopped, closed my eyes and understood that, possibly, I was seeking a co-relative to some other, more personal horror. I accepted this, my apparent and monstrous egotism. But if I did so without shame it was knowing that acceptance was the moment we bear witness, and in the only way possible.

Later at the hotel, Thom rang his mother. He said he'd had a super day.

5 am. Woke up sweating. Outside the window, the hotel car park, some municipal flowers, a few trees. I stared hard, as if something were missing.

Hamburg to Kiev.

We arrived at the hotel early and so, with time to spare, I packed Thom off to the balcony with his dictionaries while I lay down and tried to remember my night on the Reeperbahn. There had been brandy, I knew that. Lager, whisky. One show, two, three.  The third show, yes, that's interesting. Was that actually a show? .

Thom ordered a taxi to the stadium. Since he now considers himself European, it was easy for us to fall in with some Spanish fans and pretend we weren't English. Frankly, football bores me. For Thom, it was the most beautiful game he had ever seen. While he claims to discern algebraic forms in the Spanish passing, all I see is a snowstorm of galumphing spermatozoa. But I was happy enough to sit with him, even though he did keep saying, somewhat loudly, maravilloso!

Halftime, I rang Helen. Last summer she met a man, Ross, at a therapy workshop. After a couple of months of tentative dating she decided, quite reasonably, that I should stop my afternoon- and sometimes very early morning- visits to her room. I minded, a bit. Rather than missing her body I found, unaccountably, that I missed talking to her, which we'd never really done. Initially, Gareth was euphoric. Ross had come between me and Helen and so for a few weeks Gareth came into work beaming. He even looked younger. It was as if he'd grown a couple of inches. However, even his enthusiasm fell when it became clear that Ross was an insufferable prick.

It's not uncommon in therapy circles. Sometimes you meet them, therapists who have no other interest in life other than therapy. They care for nothing but optimizing their emotional and physical wellbeing. They have no sense of humour, no hinterland. They will never admit to their previous, unsuccessful career. And then they seduce vulnerable women, like Helen. She should have known better.

Ross invited her to a therapy retreat on a Greek island. With his beard and pony tail, Ross runs the course as an eclectic mix of meditation, group work and optional naturism. Within days of her arrival Helen suspected that half of the women on the retreat were previous or future lovers of Ross and so, furious with him and herself, she fled back to England. She retuns to work next week.

And so it was, with images from last night on the Reeperbahn eliding into familiar, but equally sexy, images of Helen, I was relieved from it all by the roar of the crowd. We were hauled into a  mass hug by the fans next to us. Spain had won. We had won.

I found Thom sat writing at a desk in one of the drawing rooms. Renoir nude over the fireplace, possibly the one Axel mentioned, the one the Russians were pleading to have back. Thom shot out of his seat and directed me over to a wall of pictures. It was a collection of 1920's photographs of women in flapper poses. Now I think, said Thom. I was quite clear he wasn't thinking anything. What had happened to my son? He scratched his chin. I think that a photograph must have a title. You cant just take a picture and not give it a name. Can you, really? His eyes softened a little. Clearly, he didnt want me to know what he was writing at the desk. Well, probably these pictures are anonymous, so we if we don't know the photographer, then. I sounded rather lame but looked him hard in the eyes. Where had my son gone?

Gertrude entered carrying a cheeseburger and chips.

Dankschoen, said Thom, without turning round.

Bitte, said Gertrude, quietly leaving the plate on his desk.

I was angry with her, but I'm not now. She kept correcting my pronunciation, he said. For a moment, we looked at the pictures. I was reminded of a photo of my mother. I felt a yearning to be out of Hamburg, to be hurtling on down to Auschwitz. The memory of my mother, dead when I was nine, had also softened Thom. He looked down at the floor. I am writing a diary, he said. He looked up quickly and said, to be certain there was no misunderstanding, but it's not secret.

Of course it's secret, Thom. If your diary is any good, you will never show a soul. Now, I am going to sit over here, you go back to your diary and write. Just write! And so we passed the time. My son on the other side of the drawing room, hiding his words with his cupped hand, the light fading on the Rumanian rug, the last of the brandy on my lips while, on and off, looking up at the Renoir. For a moment, like a dying man, I lacked for nothing.

3 am. I woke up in the chair. Thom had gone, and his diary. He was in bed, a plate of cookies and a glass of milk on the table. Quietly, I let myself out the side entrance, onto the Reeperbahnn. I heard my voice saying, research, research. Another voice, also my own, did not reply.