I try not to think about it too much as I hit the button to unlock the door and let him in. As I wait for him to arrive, I look at my kitchen table and all the paperwork that is sprawled over it, as well as at my corkboard, where I have pinned coloured Post-its with key chapters I want to cover. I take down the green Post-it, which bears both Declan’s and his brother’s names, slipping it under my laptop. I’m not sure why I feel the need to do it. Declan already knows I want to hear his side of the events of that cold November night, but still, I just feel uneasy.

After shuffling the rest of my papers together into some sort of vague piles, I carry my empty wine glass to the sink and rinse it. Jumping as I hear a knock on my door, I take a deep breath and will myself to stay calm as I go to answer it.

Declan is soaked to the skin. His dark hair plastered to his forehead, a rivulet of water runs from the end of one thick strand and right down his nose. He doesn’t seem to notice, or care. His face is red with cold and his hands stuffed deep into his pockets, for what little use that will do him. It’s clear that his jeans are waterlogged and sticking to him.

‘It’s not too late, is it?’ he asks, and I definitely detect a whiff of stale beer from him. ‘I was out for a walk, you see, and then it started bucketing down and well, it was freezin’.’

He makes for a pitiful sight. ‘C’mon in,’ I tell him. ‘Let me get you a towel and a hot drink.’

I know he needs more than a towel to dry off. He needs to get out of those soaking clothes, but I have a dearth of alternatives to offer him and I’m nervous enough without encouraging him to strip off. I grab a couple of my biggest, warmest towels from the airing cupboard and hand them to him. He has peeled his jacket off and it has landed with an unceremonious thump onto my kitchen floor. I can already see the water leaching from it onto the tiles.

As he reaches out to take the towels, I notice two things. The first is that he is shivering with cold, and the second is that his hands – specifically his knuckles – are grazed and bruised. He’s had a run-in with someone or something.

His eyes follow my gaze and he pulls his hands away as soon as he’s realised I’ve seen the state of them.

‘You should see the other guy,’ he says with a small smile that most definitely doesn’t reach his eyes.

I absolutely don’t want to see the other guy.