He swore that I was his wife, and—I shot him, Nigel, as his arms were closing around me. Marina had retired to bed, drinking wine slowly, sleeping when she was not drinking. It was long and narrow, a well-lit, wellventilated, quiet gallery of small tables and sinks, pervaded by a thin smell of methylated spirit and of a mitigated and sterilized organic decay. ‘The fact of it is,’ I said, ‘I’m the new playwright, Thomas More. She traveled through back yards and quiet side streets on her way home, careful to avoid the main thoroughfares, fraught as they were with people in cars who would recognize her person or notice her dress. . He had been frozen in time at age forty-two.
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