She taught him how to sail a proa, how to hack open a milk-coconut, how to relish bamboo sprouts. Was there anything at all in those locked rooms of her aunt’s mind? Were they fully furnished and only a little dusty and cobwebby and in need of an airing, or were they stark vacancy except, perhaps, for a cockroach or so or the gnawing of a rat? What was the mental equivalent of a rat’s gnawing? The image was going astray. For the first time, perhaps, in his life, he repented of his brutality. He stamped his last letter as Annabel entered. ‘Now you see why it is I no longer require the proof of which I have spoken.
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