He dreams of Vesper, the dream is vivid, attacking all his senses. The sweet smell, the sound of her breath under him, the way she pushes against his body and all her red hair splashed around her face and out and across the pillow. He dreams of her and the dream is relentless in its attack.

The music, he doesn’t remember turning the music on, perhaps Vesper did.

I should have seen it coming when the roses died
Should have seen the end of summer in your eyes
I should have listened when you said good night
You really meant good bye

And he feels himself becoming lost in the moment, the way you should be lost in such a moment, the music is washing over him, it’s as if Vesper is washing over him, through him, every sensation intensified, they become the crescendo.

 I cried and I cried
There where nights that I died for you baby
I tried and I tried to deny that your love drove me crazy

And suddenly, without warning he realises that her body is no longer moving. Her hands no longer reach for him, her lips no longer search for his, her soft skin has become cold and hard and while her eyes are still open – and they stare at him with every recrimination she must have felt – they have no life reflected through them.

Bruce does not realise the scream has started until he’s sitting in his own bed, heart racing, the scream somehow having travelled through the dream and into this reality, he hears it as if it belongs to someone else entirely.

And then he realises it is not the scream alone that has travelled from the dream world into this room.

If the love that I got for you is gone
If the river I cried ain't that long
Then I'm wrong, yeah I'm wrong, this ain't a love song
If the pain that I'm feeling so strong,
Is the reason that I'm holding on
Then I'm wrong, yeah I'm wrong,
this ain't a love song

The music, somehow, inexplicably, has travelled from one reality to another refusing to be cheated of its inevitable conclusion. And there, on the edge of his bed, only just out of reach, sits Vesper herself, staring at him.

 “If anyone should be screaming shouldn’t it be me?” The voice is one of quiet contempt – and he can’t respond, not only because his voice has caught in his throat, but because, of course, true to character, she was right. And as if to illustrate her point she touches her stomach, she touches her chest, and he watches with horror as the dark red begins to seep through her clothes. “God, Bruce, your relentless angst and pain and suffering is so tedious. You’re really starting to bore me with this. Night after night, you drag me out and you do this with me. I deserved so much better than this.”

But he can’t answer, he can’t speak, all he can do is cry.

“You haven’t been to visit me.” She says to him. “Don’t you think it’s time you said goodbye?”

If the pain that I'm feeling so strong,
Is the reason that I'm holding on
Then I'm wrong, yeah I'm wrong,
this ain't a love song

“Fuck,” She finally says. “I didn’t even like this fucking song.”

He dreams of Vesper, the dreams are vivid, attacking all his senses. The sweet smell, the sound of her breath under him, the way she pushes against his body and all her red hair splashed around her face and out and across the pillow. He dreams of her and the dreams are relentless in their attack.

And suddenly, every time no matter how often the dream has been repeated, every time it is unexpected, every time he has no warning, suddenly the body beneath his has ceased to move. He cannot hear her breath, she no longer pushes, she no longer moves. Suddenly she is cold and dead and he realises she has been that way for some time perhaps from the beginning. Her skin is tinged with grey and it is with horror he realises the red explosion across the pillow is not from her hair alone.

It is a rare and fortunate man who is haunted by ghosts. Most of us are simply haunted by ourselves, by our regrets and our guilt. A ghost would inevitably be preferable, easier as they are to exorcize.

I returned home on the 27^th and found that the first thing I wanted was a hot shower and the second was a decent meal. Anyone who has the misfortune to be privy to my whims knows I’m a sucker for a good risotto and so I found myself late that night down at a little place on wharf that only true Gothamites seem to know about. I think, Joe, the owner likes it that way.

So, I’m sitting there, eating risotto, pretending to read my book, the way you do when you dine alone, and Joe’s daughter comes up to keep me company. She doesn’t ask about the elephant in the room, the one I know you’re all wondering about – she says:

“Was Santa good to you this year?”

It took me a moment to answer before I was able to reply, with certainty, that yes, Santa had been good to me this year.

The moment of indecision, uncertainty, was clouded by the year I’m now working to put behind me. But the reply, I realised, could only ever been affirmative. Santa is good to me every year. I couldn’t have any other answer.

There’s a lot of clichés I could spout here about the year I am now putting behind me. About knowing who your friends are, about adversity making you stronger, about coming to understand what really matters. About being thankful to the people who have stood by me during these difficult times.

I’m looking forward to the year ahead. There’s a lot of work to be done, a lot of damage to be repaired, however I am confident in our ability to do so.

The only gift that means anything is this chance we all get – and what we do with it. What is important now, going forward, is what I do with what I’ve been given. That is all that really matters.