Probably not.

A knock on the door.

'Fuck.'

Could I risk ignoring it? Sleep was already creeping along my nerves. More knocking and I sighed, opened it.

Ridge.

She was in uniform, looking serious, intimidating.

I said, 'I paid my television licence, officer.'

She was not amused, but then, she rarely was. Our relationship was usually combative, aggressive, and however much we tried, we never could get free of each other. Before Cody had been shot, we'd reached a sort of warmth. She was in a relationship and it appeared we might establish some sort of friendship.

I'd saved her from a very vicious stalker and I knew how much she appreciated it, but she reacted with hostility to being indebted, and, God knows, no one understood this better than me. You help me out, I feel like I owe you, and till the sheet is clean I'm uneasy, jumpy, and what I know best is antagonism. The terrible truth, and we both knew it, was we needed to be linked, were linked, and somewhere in all that mess we were both scared we'd lose each other.

Is this fucked up? Sure. Or maybe it's just pure Irish.

I often thought, if only she weren't gay, would there be something?

If I wasn't an alcoholic. If . . . if . . . if.

Back through the years, we'd helped each other more than anyone else. Then we'd reach a plateau of near intimacy and one or both of us would scuttle for cover. Wouldn't it break your heart. It certainly broke mine, and as for Ridge, a smashed heart was written on her face if you could get past the front.

But the shooting had changed everything. My bitterness was not going to bring back the vague thread of closeness we'd been near.

She accused, 'You're only getting up?'

Her face was devoid of make-up and she looked strained.

'Actually, I was going to bed.'

She made a show of checking her watch. 'It's one thirty in the afternoon.'