He makes a concession. He offers to rent a place to work. ‘All I need’s a bare cell, whereas what you need is two bedrooms, and it’ll cost a bloody fortune. I could rent a place for six months and see how it goes.’ So staggered I couldn’t speak. After all these years he is talking about it simply as a question of logistics, and not as an attack by me on the very fibre of his innermost being. Later I recall that the last time he made this offer it was a lie. I also know that it’s come too late.