The funeral is taking place at the little church a few streets over from Mum’s house in Acton – a church that Mum and I had never even been into before today.

My stomach is churning and my throat is parched. I’m desperate to just get inside and get it over with, but there’s already a little crowd of people gathered by the church door. They’re family members, mostly, and a few of Mum’s friends too. They move towards me one by one, and I let them take my hand and tell me they’re sorry, or pull me into tight, breathless hugs. I let this weird, pointless procession of tears and apologies play out in front of me as if I’m not even part of it; just a spectator, watching from behind a screen.

Then, with a jolt of surprise, I spot Harv through the crowd. I’d totally forgotten he would be here. He’s standing by the big wooden door, hands jammed in the pockets of his suit jacket, looking uncharacteristically awkward and shy. He was away on holiday when Mum died, and even though we spoke briefly on the phone, this was the first time I’d actually seen him since it happened.

He’s changed a lot since 2010. The weight has dropped off him, and his face is all cheekbones and laughter lines. He looks like present-day Harv again. He catches my eye for a split second, then sort of grimaces and looks away. He clearly doesn’t know how to react, or what to say, and I can’t really blame him. There are no guidelines for this kind of situation. I don’t think either of us ever imagined we’d have to help the other through a day like this.

Our friendship – like most male friendships – has been built primarily on ripping the piss out of each other. For more than a decade, it has been nothing but banter and trivia and talking bollocks. And now, suddenly, Harv is standing outside a church, waiting for my mum’s coffin to be lowered into the ground, and trying to figure out what the hell he should say to me. I watch him squirming on the spot, wrinkling and unwrinkling his brow, and feel an intense rush of affection for him. Because despite everything, he’s still here for me. He’s always been here.

I walk towards him and he yanks his hands out of his pockets and wrings them together. He stares down at the ground, shaking his head and muttering, ‘Mate … Fuck … I just … Fuck …’ like a malfunctioning foul-mouthed robot.

And then, almost violently, he pulls me towards him and hugs me. This must have happened last time, but like everything else, I suppose I blocked it out. I hug him back, and feel the tears start to prickle in my eyes.

‘I’m so fucking sorry, man,’ he whispers. ‘I’m just … so, so sorry.’