The cutter pitched into a wild bay. Grey rock made me feel at home again. High on the hill I painted the cross white so I could see it from anywhere. It ruled the island as it ruled my thoughts. The dog ran free.

A February storm wrecked the house; only the transmitter survived so I could confess to the world. Back on the quay the containers were rusted towers; straps and bolts brown-grey; at the end Dijkzigt Hospital cut hard against driving cloud. I lit a cigarette. Better on the second draw.

I took a room on the Groene Hilledijk. We had stayed there once, new to each other, brave and shy. Outside still run-down; inside, everything changed. I felt hollower than then. I bought razors and took a long bath. The beard had been a shield against the island wind. Young still, in the mirror. Clean body; heavier emptiness. What comes after clean?

I put the notebooks on the table. They are worth it. I must edit them. Maybe the diaries will free me of my guilt. They are her death, at least that.