I am sorry that I have lost the calendar which records the actual date of the worst night of my life.     It was some time in the last fortnight of October, 1982.

    I do not know quite how to begin, either.    Plainly and baldly, therefore.     On this particular evening I called at 65, St. Lawrence Crescent in the town of Shaftesbury, Dorset, to talk with Penny.    I had, by now, little hope of salvaging our marriage, but our discussion was on the whole courteous.    I cannot recall what we discussed; probably I was asking her to do something and she was politely and dismissively declining.

     About nine p.m. Penny asked me to leave, saying — I think — that she had to do some sewing.     I left, but as I did so my neck-hairs prickled faintly.    I don't know why, but that is what happened.    I was, that night, driving one of Steve's big black Granada taxis.      I was due to pick somebody up early the

In The Place Where They Grind Up The Hearts