Last night they’d made love but it had left Joe wide awake, as if someone had taken a can opener to his ribcage and exposed the throbbing heart of him. Throwing on some clothes, he’d gone out and hauled the ground sheet off the Tiger, walking the bike up the moonlit road before he mounted, so as not to disturb Ailsa. ‘Couldn’t sleep. I thought you hadn’t heard. I tried to be quiet. Sorry, love.’ ‘It’s all right. What was the trouble, cariad?’ He liked to hear the Welsh endearments in her mouth. The love in her voice assured him that she was his home, he hers, wherever they lived; no quarrel was final and no bad words unforgivable. ‘Oh, you know. This and that.’ ‘Chalkie, was it?’ ‘Aye.’ Ailsa said nothing but he felt her sympathising care mantling him. She no longer blamed him, thank the Lord. But he blamed himself. The grief and remorse did not abate. With every day his friend seemed more present, not buried safely in the cemetery at Fayid but burrowing like a maggot in Joe’s body.
