‘You were talking in your sleep,’ she said.

‘I never talk in my sleep,’ he protested.

‘How do you know?’

‘Nadine would have told me…’ He stopped, pulled back too late. He had upset her again.

‘You were dreaming of her.’ The bedside lamp, angled directly at him, reminded him of an interrogative spotlight. ‘You called me Nadine and then you tried to kiss me. How do you think that makes me feel?’

Did she have a sixth sense? Were her fingers capable of probing his unconscious? They probed everywhere else. He touched her shoulder. Her flesh was warm but unyielding.

‘This is ridiculous, Karin. You can’t hold me responsible – ’

‘Can’t I?’ A surly, almost childish expression crossed her face. Her bottom lip swelled. It’s just blubber, he thought. A muscle containing too much fat. The image was vaguely unpleasant. She flung back the duvet and flounced from the bed. ‘It’s time you realised I’m not a surrogate for Nadine. You’re always talking about her. And now you’re doing it in your sleep.’

‘That’s a lie.’ He readjusted the lamp and rubbed his eyes, too tired for an argument. ‘Do you want me to apologise? Okay, I apologise because my wife’s name inadvertently passed my lips when I was in an unconscious state.’

‘Were you fucking her in your unconscious state?’ She sat in front of the dressing table and brushed her hair with fast, furious strokes. Strands of hair bristled, charged by her anger.

He hated her casual use of the word and its application to Nadine. ‘What if I was? Am I to be punished for my dreams now?’

The hairbrush struck his forehead before he could duck. His shock was so great he hardly noticed the pain. She lifted a bottle of perfume, raised her arm to fling it at him. He sprang from the bed and forced it from her fingers.

‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’ he shouted. ‘You wake me up with some crazy accusation than start attacking me. Are you trying to wreck this relationship? If so, full marks. I’m out of here.’

She grabbed his clothes, flung them at him. ‘Then go, right now.’

He dressed quickly. His forehead throbbed. He touched it gingerly. A lump was already rising on his temple. He needed to calm down. This was a game and it had been played before. Rows that erupted out of nowhere, tantrums followed by passion on the edge of violence.

He reached the bedroom door and stopped, alerted by her cry. She was slumped at the dressing table, her face buried in her arms.

‘Karin… what is it?’ He stood behind her and drew her upright until their eyes met in the mirror. The rush of blood to her face had subsided and she was pale, almost ashen.

‘Hearing her name like that… all those memories you have. I’m jealous of them.’

‘Are they also part of my punishment?’ He pressed his fingers into her shoulders, his knuckles braced against her supple flesh. ‘I’m with you, not Nadine. How often must I convince you of that?’

‘You think I’m a possessive bitch who’s demanding far more than you’re willing to give,’ she continued as if he had not spoken. ‘Even when you’re fucking me you’re thinking of her.’

‘Stop saying that.’ His fingers pressed harder, kneaded the knobbles of tension under her smooth skin.

‘Isn’t that why you want to hurt me?’

‘I said stop – ’

‘You try to hide it but I know it’s there.’

She was waiting for him to overwhelm her, he thought. To drag her back to bed and make love until they were both exhausted. He released the pressure on her shoulders and rubbed his hands together, shocked by the ferocity of his thoughts. The room felt airless. He opened the window. The city was on the move, a slow snail of traffic along the quays but the early morning noises could not reach them. He inhaled and exhaled deeply before turning around.

She had taken a facecloth from the ensuite and soaked it in cold water.

‘I’m sorry I lost my temper, Jake.’ She stretched upwards and pressed the cloth to his forehead. He winced against its coldness. Her anger seemed to have abated but he was unable to gauge her mood.

‘I always seem to be apologising to you.’ She smiled, wryly. ‘Let me make it up to you tonight. I’ll pick up something in the supermarket and call over to Sea Aster after work. What would you like? Fish would be nice for a change.’ She glanced at the clock. ‘Gosh! Is that the time? I’d better shower. I’ve an appointment in an hour with a client.’

‘I can’t see you tonight,’ he said. ‘You know I always have band practice on Wednesdays.’

‘Can’t you cancel?’

‘No, I can’t.’

‘Okay. I’ll drive over around ten. You should be finished by then.’

Her resentment of Shard had been growing in recent weeks. They were now gigging two nights a week and on Sunday afternoons in Julia’s Tavern, a pub fronting the Liffey boardwalk. Then there was band practice on Wednesday nights and Saturday afternoons. All too much, she said.

He listened to the gush of the power shower from the ensuite. Was she waiting for him to join her, as he usually did, the two of them slip-sliding together in the soapy wash? This possibility increased his lethargy. He had sought oblivion in her arms but she no longer deadened his sense of loss. The sounds from the ensuite grew brisker. The clink of jars and bottles, potions and lotions, familiar yet always mysterious. She emerged, wrapped in a white towel, her head turbaned in a smaller one. She dressed swiftly, each move deliberately choreographed to be noticed.

‘I’ll ring you later,’ she said. ‘Make sure to set the burglar alarm before you leave. Don’t use all your energy at rehearsal.’ She fluttered her eyelashes, a teasing promise as she opened the door. ‘You’ll need some for later.’

After she left, he entered the bathroom, still steamy and scented. He rasped his hand over dark stubble and looked closer. Was there grey among the black, a faint frosting? The longing to hear Nadine’s voice rushed over him. Marital tics, phantom pains, he no longer cared.

She would not be returning to Sea Aster. She intended settling in London in the New Year but, until then, she was staying on in Alaska to see the aurora borealis. Stuart was dead. Ashes to ashes, scattered from the deck of Eyebright. Jake imagined her and Daveth Carew, the two of them freed from the spectre of death and all alone in the icy reaches. There was only one place they would go to keep warm and rejoice at being alive.

He turned on the shower. The pressure of the water needled against his skin. The bathroom filled with steam. He closed his eyes and pressed his forehead against the marble tiles. The urge to scream came and went. Finally, unable any longer to endure the pressure of the water he stumbled from the shower. Pain shot through his foot when he stubbed his big toe against the edge of the tray. Blood spurted from the gash. He limped on his heel towards the medicine cabinet. Nothing there except pill bottles, lined neatly in a row. He grabbed toilet tissue and twisted it around the wound then hobbled into the kitchen to search in the presses for bandages. The tissue was soaked with blood by the time he found a box with a red cross on one of the high shelves. After bandaging his foot he stretched upwards to replace the medicine chest. It jammed against something inside the press and he was unable to close the door. He shoved a serving dish to one side and noticed a ceramic box. He drew it forward into the light. The lid curved in two sections. A heart split in two, the Willow Passion glaze unmistakable. He carried it to the breakfast counter and stared at the pale green willow fronds, the hidden lovers.

He laid the two sections of the lid carefully on the counter. The first thing he lifted out was a menu from Lucientes, the tapas bar where Ali worked. Last week Karin had been in London for two days on business. That must be when she dined there. His chest tightened as he imagined his daughter serving patatas bravas or tortilla, unaware, as she must have been, that she was speaking to the woman who spent most nights in her father’s bed. He removed a publicity brochure from Silver Ridge University, newspaper features about First Affiliation, a flyer from Brian’s pottery. Inside a small plastic bag he found shoelaces from a discarded pair of runners, a lock of his hair, a button from his shirt and a comb that he recognised as his own. At the bottom of the box he found the photographs. The first one had been cut from a magazine called Families Matter. The magazine had published an interview with Eleanor prior to her conference. She had allowed the editor to use a family photograph that had been taken shortly before Rosanna’s death. Rosanna was in her wheelchair, flanked by himself and Nadine, her four great-grandchildren seated on the floor in front of her. Eleanor stood behind the wheelchair, her hands resting on her mother’s thin shoulders. Eight people formed the configuration but it was Eleanor with her imperious sweep of blonde hair and autocratic eyebrows who dominated the group. Nadine was faceless, recognisable only by her clothes, her long hands and red hair. Karin had used a cutting knife with skill and the circle that once featured Nadine’s face was as exact as a bullet hole. The photographs underneath had been taken from Sea Aster. Six photographs, all celebrating different family occasions. Nadine had been defaced with the same precision in each one.