‘Hello?’ I said. Then, raising my voice when there was no response, said it again. The howling continued, a blast of static that looped and roared. I pulled the handset away from my ear. It was like I was trying to call someone in Hell.

‘Tilly, are you there?’

‘Hello? Andrew?’ Her voice was faint but it was unmistakeably my sister.

‘Can you hear me?’

‘Yes. Sorry, it’s really windy here.’ She laughed. ‘It’s like the start of the Wizard of Oz.’ Her voice was a little clearer now, though I had to press the receiver hard against my ear. Beyond her voice and the roar of the wind, I could hear the faint background sound of seagulls, their cries cutting through the static.

‘Where are you?’ I asked, gripping the phone with frustration.

‘Beachy Head.’

‘What the hell are you doing up there?’

Beachy Head is a famous chalk cliff on the outskirts of Eastbourne and is a notorious suicide spot. It’s well known as the most popular place in England to kill yourself. I remembered reading that around twenty people a year throw themselves off the cliff, its fame no doubt adding to its popularity among the suicidal. The Samaritans had a huge billboard on the clifftop, encouraging people to call the charity helpline to be talked around. Despite its bloody reputation, it was a beautiful place, offering breathtaking views of the churning English Channel below, the red and white stripes of the lighthouse, the continent just beyond the horizon.

Her reply was swept away on the wind and as I said, ‘What?’ the phone beeped and the display flashed Insert another coin. Jesus. I stuck my second and final twenty pence piece into the slot.

‘Sorry, Andrew,’ she said. ‘Maybe I should call you back when I’m inside. I think we’re going in the pub in a minute.’

She sounded happy and I wondered if she was on a date. Or maybe Rachel had turned up. But I needed to tell her about my own predicament – it was important that someone knew where I was – so I said, ‘Listen I need to tell you something . . .’

She wasn’t really listening. I heard her say, ‘It’s Andrew,’ to whoever she was with.

‘Tilly . . .’ I said, impatient.

‘What’s the matter? You sound really worried. Don’t tell me you think I’m going to wheel myself off the cliff?’

‘No, Tilly . . .’

‘That thing at the start of the year, it wasn’t that serious. I’m absolutely fine now, OK? How many times do I have to tell you. I. Am. Fine.’

I heard her say something to whoever she was with. Then she addressed me: ‘I think I should call you back. Do you want to talk to her first?’

Little shivering tendrils of dread reached out for me. ‘Tilly,’ I said. ‘Who are you with?’

‘Charlie.’