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followed me to the door in silence. She opened it and then stood back, looking up at me.
    'Well,' I said.
    'Well,' she said.
    'This is it then.'
    'Yeah. Uh, thanks, I'd a really good night.'
    'Yeah, so'd I. With certain exceptions.' I touched my eye. Margaret reached up and patted the side of my head lightly, then, on her tiptoes, kissed me on the lips.
    'Y'know,' she said, 'apart from the bruising, you look like James Stewart when he was black and white.'
    I smiled and left.

4
    The knot in my stomach was still there. Guilt. Satisfaction. The pizza. The fry. A mixture of all four. I felt uncomfortable. As the hangover receded, the worry set in. I have an inability to lie well. My face reddens and I talk nonsense. My wife is aware of this.
    I had a faint hope that she might remember nothing. Awaken from her drunken stupor just wondering where I'd gotten to. I'd breeze in like nothing was wrong: I'd continued partying elsewhere. It had happened before. But then she'd look at her hands, feel them sore and bruised from striking me. And then she would remember. But a furtive kiss never hurt anyone, did it, Patricia? It was an aberration of alcohol. A whispering in the mouth of a fleeting acquaintance. She would have a vague memory of us fighting and an even vaguer memory of me upstairs with Margaret. A furtive kiss never hurt anyone. She'd been guilty of the same every Christmas as long as I could remember.
    The city centre was already crowded with Saturday shoppers enjoying the sun. As we passed the city hall we had to slow down to allow a hundred or more Linfield supporters, all decked out in red, white and blue scarves and hats, and for the most part skinheads and Doc Martens, to cross the road, shepherded by about two dozen cops with Alsatians straining enthusiastically on chain leads. They would be off to cause havoc with local rivals, Glentoran, near the shipyard. Two winter-grey armoured police Land-Rovers moved slowly against the flow of traffic behind them.
    When I got home there was a letter waiting for me on the kitchen table. The envelope was plain white but my name was written in block capitals on the front in thick red strokes. It was either a note from Patricia or a final demand from the Blood Transfusion Service. I took it into the lounge and sat down amongst the empty beer cans. She hadn't bothered to tidy up.
    Dear Dan
    I think we have a major problem. We're having too many fights. And we're drinking too much. We should think about what we want to do.
    I've gone to Mum's for a few days. Hope you enjoyed yourself with that girl. Bastard.
    Your wife.
    PS A man called Maxwell called. Wants you to call him. Said you had his number.
    PPS You know your mint-condition copy of the Sex Pistols' 'Anarchy in the UK' (EMI label) you say is worth £300?
    I melted it under the grill.
    And she had. I pulled the grill out from the cooker. The disc, hardened into black plastic stalactites, hung pathetically from the thin metal rungs of the grill.
    I made a charge for the record collection. It was still haphazardly slung around the stereo system, most of the albums out of their sleeves, but it only took me a moment to realize that all of the records particularly valued by Patricia had already been whisked away. She knew me too well. I sat down to let my anger subside; I thought briefly about crying, but instead I started giggling. It had been a smart move on her part. She hadn't let her fury crowd her judgement, she knew how to strike where it hurt most and protect herself against reprisals. I wondered if she was laughing herself now.
    I set about tidying the house. There were two or three half-full cans of Harp sitting about and I drank them as I worked. They were a bit warm and a bit flat, but I was trying to wean myself off Coke and I didn't reckon they were half as bad for me. I finished the tidying and adjourned to my study, the scene of the previous night's passion. It was shielded from the sun, pleasantly cool and dim. I