June 2026

The Editor had always assumed he would be the last to go. The Boy cracked. The Man, well, was never quite there. Lacan sobbed. But the Editor remained. He remained because he had to. Somebody had to keep the sentences moving. Somebody had to maintain…

The lecture theatre has migrated again and now exists in Paris and in the Man’s head at four in the morning. Lacan arrives late. He looks magnificent in the way only ageing French intellectuals and certain disappointed alcoholics can look: magnificent, exhausted, theatrical, faintly ridiculous.…

Long fingers descend along the wall before the body appears, then the nose, the teeth, the thin moral architecture of the face, Nosferatu arriving down the landing, three steps above the Man, ready in judgment. “You are destroying family,” Witek says. Not hello. Not good…

It happened on a Saturday morning in February, though in truth the marriage had been ending for years. Not betrayal exactly. Exhaustion. Translation failure. Two people repeatedly offering one another versions of love the other could no longer metabolise. The boys were out. Cups remained…

The word came out before there was time to censor it. Top shelf hardcore. A full frontal wrapped in plastic. A grotesque horror show. “Fucking hell,” the Editor said. The Editor, whose entire professional dignity rested on his ability to arrive before anything improper became…

The automatic doors open slowly. “It’s quiet. Too quiet,” says the Man, hand signalling to the Editor to cover his back. They pause at the threshold. Fluorescent light. A hum that feels like surveillance. Or a device for pea refrigeration. “Easy,” says the Editor. “Bananas…

“Celeriter nube, otiose paenite,” says Lacan, because he cannot help himself. Marry in haste, repent at leisure. “Seriously?” says the Boy. “Latin? Is Caecilius still at the atrium?” “’Fraid so, old fruit,” says the Editor. From atrium to lake. The polar bear continues his dance:…

It begins in Lewes, naturally. Not in a church hall exactly. In the Meeting House. Friars walk the mean streets. The Boy sits beside his mother on a hard wooden chair beneath the pale windows. The room is full of people making very little noise.…

“Go on,” Shankly says. “Tell me what you think is wrong with you, then. You’ve got five minutes. Emlyn’s knees are my priority this morning.” He does not say this to the Boy. He says it to the Man, who is already standing half-turned, already…

“I stopped drinking,” he says too quickly, and hears the weakness in it at once. Lacan doesn’t even bother to smile. “No. You paused. A pause preserves the route. It is the loop catching its breath.” “I was drinking too much,” says the Man. “Too…