I tottered inside, calling Peter’s name. The room was vast, white walled, except for the expanse of glass that faced out over the river. On a sunny day it might have been lovely, but now the darkness pressed against the pane, as though it was peering in. There was a tang in the air I couldn’t place, that was neither cleaning product nor food. Three rooms led off the main room: a bathroom, a bedroom, and a study or second bedroom that was totally empty. Peter was not there, nor were there many signs that Peter had ever been there. Where were the books? Where were the records? Peter had liked to express himself through content, back when we didn’t call it content: well-thumbed copies of yellowing paperbacks, videos of foreign films taped off Channel 4 after midnight, vinyl when everyone else was showing off their CDs. All hoarded up in the hope that someone, the right someone, would see them and know him for who he really was. I was the one looking, the one paying attention, but I was never the right person for Peter.

In the wardrobe, there were expensive shirts still in their wrappings. In the bathroom cabinet, a half-empty box of antidepressants. In the shower, hotel soap and shampoo. In the fridge, a flat bottle of tonic and an array of condiments.

Peter slept on a mattress thrown in the middle of the floor, a few short steps from the gleaming black kitchen. The bed was unmade, the sheets in need of a wash. Among the pillows, I spotted a bag of mint imperials and a smile came unbidden: a geography teacher, Mrs. Haines, catching him at it, week after week. Her back to the class as she wrote notes on the board:

“Mr. White, I hope you’ve got enough of those for everyone.”

Until the week he replied that he supposed he did, actually, and she had him get up and divvy them out, only hardly anyone ate them, because they were Peter’s.

The dishwasher had a hint of foulness. I stared into its mouth, and into the pristine oven and the empty bin, and I ran my fingers over the cutlery in the drawer and banged it shut, so that Adewale looked at me in alarm.

An armchair was placed by the window. Was this where Peter had his cornflakes in the morning? Or where he sat in the evenings, at night even, before or after his visitors had come and gone? Upon the glass, an oblong smear. I sat down in the chair and leaned forward to rest my forehead against the window. Below me, the glutinous river snaked toward the sea. When I drew back, some inches below the first smear was now another. And I thought, Oh Peter, this is not what we planned. This is not what we planned at all.