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can’t stand this deception.’ She turned her back on me. In the light of the street lamps that glowed dimly through the gap between the curtains, I saw her figure outlined. I felt a heavy weight settle on my chest, press down on it. I felt weary.
    â€˜I can’t do this, Daiva,’ I whispered, my voice tight. ‘I don’t want to talk now.’
    Daiva sat up. I saw the stiffening of the muscles in her neck, her jaw jutting forward slightly.
    Her voice was low and measured when she spoke. ‘You never do want to talk about it.’
    I eased myself out of bed and went over to the window. Pulling back the thin curtain, I looked out blankly into the night.
    â€˜You never want to confront things,’ Daiva said. I lifted my hand.
    â€˜Daiva,’ I said, finding my breathing constricted, feeling the heavy hand pressing down on my chest, squeezing the breath from me, ‘I don’t want to talk just now. Let’s stop.’
    â€˜I need to talk.’ Her voice was furious. Quiet, low, controlled, but furious.
    I balled my fist and pressed it hard against my chest. A sharp pain pierced through the muscles above my heart.
    â€˜For five years now we have been walking around each other. I have kept my mouth shut, watched you drinking more and more, sitting here in silence because I’m not allowed to talk. It’s killing me, Antanas. It’s killing me.’
    I spun around.
    â€˜Killing you?’ I spat at her. ‘Killing you? You don’t know the meaning of that word.’ My voice rose. ‘Do you want me to tell you what that word means? Do you want to know what killing means? Do you?’
    â€˜Don’t you shout at me,’ she said, her voice very low and tight now.
    I was trembling. My pulse raced; my teeth were gritted so tight against each other they hurt.
    Daiva pulled the sheet away and got out of bed. She moved silently across the room to the crib. The baby had stirred. I could hear her moving, a small snuffle. Daiva leant down, arranging the covers over her, muttering soothingly. I turned back to the window and pressed my forehead against the cool glass. Closing my eyes, I breathed deeply, trying to control the rage.
    The door of the bedroom clicked and a light came on in the hallway. I turned to see Daiva entering the kitchen. I followed her. She had opened the window and was staring out, a soft breeze blowing her fine light hair away from her face, making the silk of her pyjamas shiver. Hearing me enter, she picked up the kettle. Filling it from the tap, she placed it on the hob and struck a match to light the gas. Only then did she turn to me.
    Leaning back against the sink, she folded her arms across her chest. For some moments she did not say anything. I stood in the doorway, my pulse racing.
    â€˜It can’t go on,’ she said at last.
    She pushed her hair back from her face. Her cheeks were flushed delicately pink. Her throat was the colour of marbled amber.
    â€˜I can’t live like this any more.’
    â€˜You think I can?’ I retorted, wounded by the implication of her words. I felt the ripple of desperation pass beneath my feet, the swell of the bubble of darkness. ‘You think I can live like this?’ I repeated, not knowing what else to say.
    The gas flame roared faintly. A gust of wind blew through the window, billowing the net curtains, rasping the gas.
    â€˜It’s not just the drinking, Antanas, although God knows the drinking is difficult enough to bear. I just can’t stand how you give in to her.’
    â€˜Give in to who? What are you talking about?’
    â€˜She calls and you come running.’
    â€˜Daiva, her husband just died today.’
    â€˜And you can’t keep your hands off her. Straight over.’
    â€˜You can’t be serious.’
    â€˜I can’t stand it any more,’ she screamed. Her face was set and brutal with pain. Tears flowed down her cheeks and her whole body