Part of me wanted to disappear into an alcoholic fog.
Another side wanted me to remain cool and calm because I knew my thoughts would become confused. I could see a mental abyss before me and knew that if I wasn’t careful it was likely to be filled with a terrifying tangle of unfathomable intrigue into which my mind would spiral, uncontrollably.
But it was at that point that I changed. It was at that moment that I began to hate the introverted depression that had dominated me since I retired. I put the untouched full glass of whisky and the bottle onto the floor and sat there, alone, feeling colder by the minute. So, I turned up the gas fire, pulled my chair closer and held my hands towards it.
For the first time, ever Sarah’s log effect gas fire seemed comforting.
The more I tried to unravel it, the tighter the knots seemed to become.
I got up, went to the kitchen and then came back and looked at myself in the mirror over the shelf by Sarah’s crockery cabinet.
I moved the little wicker basket dish which still contained her comb, brush and hair clips and I smelled them. Tears came to my eyes, overflowed and rolled down my cheeks.
Then I tried to look at myself in the mirror and felt sure I heard Sarah come up behind me.
“What a sight for sore eyes,” I heard her say. “You need to pull yourself together, Mr Thomas.”
I went to sit down again, held my cold hands towards the fire and made a decision. If Donaldson really was still alive, then I needed to act. I still owed it to Sarah. I owed it to Beaty. I owed it now to myself.
But first I need a good sleep.