Not until . . .’ ‘Best not to talk about it,’ says Chris. ‘But because of him . . . ’ I say. ‘I know.’ ‘It can’t be swept under the carpet. That day you told me, I felt like I could have chopped you up into little pieces and carried your head home.’ ‘Like what happened to poor old Pentheus in The Bacchae?’ ‘Exactly like him.’ ‘I remember you took it calmly. Wisely.’ I have to change the subject. ‘Yes,’ I say. ‘So what next? Will you go back, study some more?’ ‘Maybe. I’m feeling drained right now. Jaded. But I will, probably, eventually. If I do a PhD I’ll start it in New Zealand. Dunedin, perhaps.’ I nod. ‘What?’ ‘I didn’t say anything.’ ‘I can read you like a book though. It’s all over your face.’ ‘Well, is it a life?’ ‘I don’t live in the past,’ Chris insists. ‘I never have. Not completely. And besides, your past is just as important to you as mine is to me.’ ‘Ah, but it’s not the same thing intirely,’ I say, putting on a mock Irish accent.
