‘Right,’ I say, turning to the counter and collecting my drink.

‘It was good to see you the other night.’

‘Yeah, it was,’ I lie.

Something about Hugh’s face is making me feel anxious. ‘I’m running really late, but good to see you.’

Just as I reach the exit, he pulls at my arm. ‘Is everything OK? The other night, you were acting …’ His eyes are manic, and I sense other customers looking up from their paper cups.

‘Everything’s fine,’ I say quietly, desperate to get away from him with his rancid breath and desperate stare.

‘Listen,’ he says. ‘I wanted to talk to you, about Jess …’

I pull my arm back. ‘No.’

My voice is louder than I’d intended and Hugh takes a step back, composing himself.

When he speaks again, his voice is quieter. ‘I think it would be good to talk—’

‘I said no. Now leave me alone.’

‘OK,’ he says, raising his hands. ‘OK. Well, I’ll see you then.’

Once he has left the café, I stand there watching him move down the street, my whole body shaking.

Waiting until I know he will have gone, when I finally go back outside I feel a chill rush through me. Before I have time to acknowledge where I am going, I feel myself turning left. At the fork in Camden Road, I go forwards, my body moving as though a magnet is dragging me back through Kentish Town, pulling me by the chest towards the Heath.

As I enter by the tennis courts, with each blink I see the girl’s face, fuzzy and out of focus, the details just out of reach.

The sky above me is thick and oppressive. Wiping a thin line of perspiration from the top of my lip, I move towards the clusters of trees. Someone else might struggle to differentiate one copse of trees from another, but I know this place better than I know myself.

The hill feels steeper than usual, the distance between each stride elongated as my eyes sweep over the skyline, the contours of my childhood spreading out before me. For a moment I imagine all the millions of lives hidden from view behind all those tiny glass windows, on the other side of the city.

It has rained overnight. The ground is unsteady beneath me and I feel my feet slosh and slide, and the same dank, earthy smell pounds through my nostrils, filling my chest.

All I need is a clue, some tiny detail that will lead me to the next step. That is what it is about, little steps, sequences, following one path until you get to another.

It doesn’t take long. Combing every centimetre of ground, waiting for something to click, I scour the surface with an almost euphoric strain in my chest. My feet move carefully, slowly treading one in front of the other, retracing my steps from that night, until I stop.