Sid was the first to speak. He was so short, he had slipped down behind the table and, like a child, peered across the top. ‘They’re both here,’ he told his wife unnecessarily, as she must have heard us. ‘Let me explain a few things,’ he continued. ‘This is very hard for Liz. It’s not usually what she does and she’s only doing it because she wants to help you.’ He grimaced. ‘Personally, I advised against it. When she deliberately makes the journey to the other side of the mirror, she has no idea who she may come up against. You were there when she gave her talk on Saturday. They’re not ghosts. They’re not spirits. They’re not always friends. What she’s doing tonight is the difference between wandering into someone’s private property by accident and deliberately trespassing. There can be repercussions. Whatever happens, do not get out of your seats. Do not touch her. Do not interrupt. Do you both understand? If she needs help, that’s what I’m here for. I know what to do. You just stay where you are.’

It was well rehearsed and smoothly delivered. But it was still mumbo-jumbo. It might have convinced the Jersey police when they were searching for a lost kid in a nature reserve, but I didn’t believe a word of it and nor – I was sure – did Hawthorne. He was sitting silently with his hands folded in front of him. I tried to catch his eye, but he avoided me.

‘Are you ready, love?’ Sid asked.

Elizabeth nodded.

‘I’m right next to you. I’m with you all the way.’

‘Thank you, Sid.’ She took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling, her hands resting on the arms of the chair. She didn’t go into a trance. There were no exhalations, no rolling of the eyes. If anything, she might simply have dozed off. I had thought Sid would lower the lights, but they were still on at full strength. Despite that, I was aware of the shadows in the corners of the room. The four of us were very still.

‘Is there anybody there?’ Elizabeth asked. I was surprised that she had started with such a cliché. Surely she could do better than that?

Nothing. Just the sound of her breathing.

‘Phyllis? Consuela? Alessandro?’

‘These are reflections who have appeared to her before,’ Sid explained, in a whisper. ‘With a bit of luck, one of them might come forward.’

Consuela was a Spanish name and Alessandro an Italian one. I wondered if Elizabeth would be able to speak to them in their own language. Or did everyone speak the same language when they died, trapped in some sort of eternal Google Translate?