‘I don’t care. This isn’t okay.’ I take his cigarettes off him and put them in my pocket. ‘You can’t do this in front of me. You have to hide with your mates in a shitty bus station somewhere. Or even better, don’t do it.’

‘I thought you weren’t like them, but you are like them.’

‘Who?’

‘The rest of them.’

‘I’m sorry I forgot your birthday, Sonny.’

‘That’s okay.’

‘I’ve been … having a bit of a hectic time. I’ll bring you a present round soon, okay?’

‘Okay.’

‘Let me know if there’s anything in particular you want.’

‘That pack of cigarettes.’

‘Very funny.’

He starts looking at his phone, so I look at mine. I loop back round my apps and refresh. As my Instagram feed refreshes I see there’s a new post from Suzy Brambles, from a few hours earlier. How did I miss this?

It’s a picture of someone’s arm. A man’s arm. There’s a section of tattoo visible. A trident of some kind.

It is Art’s arm.

I fall to my knees, phone in hand.

IT IS A PICTURE OF ART’S ARM.

Not only that, but he has commented underneath:

Nice composition, Foxface x x

‘Aunty Jenny? Are you all right?’

I cannot reply. All I can do is stare at my phone.

‘Are you having a stroke? You’ve gone a funny colour.’

Forty-six people have liked the Foxface comment.

My mind rises up and leaves my body. I am not myself. I do not know who I am but I am not here and I am not this and I am not myself.

I get up and run off down the street.

I hear Sonny shouting after me. ‘Aunty Jenny? AUNTY JENNY?’

I don’t know where I’m going but as I’m running I’m checking things against things in my head, calculating, computing, adding it all up. How was I blind to this? I am better than this … obscene ignorance. It is inexcusable to have not deduced this earlier. If I could fire myself from running my life right now, I would. This is an act of gross misconduct. Of negligence. A head must roll! Something must die. SOMETHING MUST DIE!

I reach the bridge and push past a group of protesters standing holding signs for something or other. ‘MOVE OUT OF THE WAY,’ I yell, ‘THIS IS A LIFE OR DEATH ISSUE!’ They move out of the way. They are unified, momentarily, through fear of me, this madwoman, heading for the edge of the bridge. I find a ledge and climb over the barrier and stand, staring at the river below.

‘Call the police!’ someone shouts.

‘Don’t do it!’ shouts someone else.

‘I have to!’ I shout. ‘There is nothing else for me to do now!’

‘It’s never as bad as you think!’ shouts another person.