A confession is a moment of release, a letting go of . . . . the content is down to you. I don’t know. It is an inside space, a cavern, somewhere you to sit, the priest’s hole in the dark sitting still with your own thoughts without the face of the other staring back. At least not the whole picture, only parts, a brim of a hat, a flicker of a moustache, a brush of chin. You don’t want to see the whole thing, and remember, there is a thrill in telling and telling into a dark hole, an orifice, an ear.

She would do it by telephone, the black and gold fringed hook in the hall. Edith had always enjoyed phones although she rarely received calls, but she had received an attractive antique from her father who one day pulled out the cord in a fit of pique, so Meg told her sometime later from a call box. ‘Going deaf on one side, you know, and it’s so infuriating, always blaming everyone else, their mumbling, their poor annunciation, their impatience with the English language, their illiteracy . . . such a poor choice of words. . . .You know how he is, Edie.’ She didn’t, not really, not anymore, but she could hear her father speaking down the phone, his tone turning coarser, more bilious and enraged, spitting. Meg decided to leave it unattached. ‘I’m not going to fix it; he’ll do it again, there’s no point, so no phone calls for a while, Edie. ..’ They would return to written notes for a while. She would ask the curate for assistance — he would deliver her notes — a funny looking bald man. Mr. Reed. Rev. Reed one day. Edith sighed and picked up the phone. A list of words appeared before her dancing in mid-air, long legged, alluring, refined. She must adopt the right tone and method for the inspector: solemn, respectful, cautious, accurate, detailed, exacting, correct - her account must be that — Edith must tell the truth, the whole truth and nothing but the truth so Help me God. She twisted the black cord between her fingers. Remember, remember the fifth of November, gunpowder, treason and plot. Plot. What was it? How did it go? What happened?

‘You see, Inspector, it was a very ordinary day, a day like any other, and I was on my way to the arcade. It was Saturday, a Saturday in spring, the end of May. Quite my favourite time of year and I felt quite jolly and cheerful. Oh, I do hope I don’t sound silly . . . this is a small seaside town, Inspector, and nothing much happens here, I have to confess . . . well . . . I should let you into my little secret . . . I had taken rather a fancy to Mr. Jarvis at the chemist. Oh, I suppose it’s nothing really, just a fancy as I say, but there is something about Mr. Jarvis that is so essential . . . such a stalwart. Oh, I’m blushing, just like a schoolgirl, my cheeks are hot . . . Really, he’s such a regular sort of person really. Like those benches you take for granted on the seafront. Somewhere to stop and catch your breath. That’s Mr. Jarvis: you stop in and chatter and of course pick up a few things — disinfectant, toothpaste, a bar of soap, and I like to smell the perfume at the front — but I suppose, well I suppose you can take anything too far and perhaps it has all got out of hand, this little game we are playing . . .life . . . You see, the most remarkable thing about Mr. Jarvis is how ordinary he is. There is nothing extraordinary about him; a rather private man I always thought. Discreet, unexplained, he never says anything about himself. Mr. Jarvis is a very unexplained sort of man. He has never once told me what he does apart from stand in front of that counter with his white coat and his white gloves flecking dust off the talcum powder. ‘How can I help, Madam?’ That’s all he ever says. ‘How can I help?’ I’m sorry, it’s not much to go on, Inspector, is it?’