Today, I do not have that security. I am not safe. As I walk in, I pull my hat down, put my collar up, and keep a sideways eye out. A girl on the checkout (Alyssa?) smiles at me, and I give her the quick grin of a man with no time to spare. I move quickly. At the meat section I consider pork and the aphrodisiac of crackling, but know it would turn out soggy, and then ponder the alternative of crispy roast chicken, maybe with lemon, if that’s a thing, but I decide that a couple of good-quality steaks will give me the benefit of I really haven’t gone to much trouble. I can do potatoes served in their jackets, and a salad. Maybe some veggies in the oven. I can cook the steaks while we talk, and the rest can already be in train.

So far, I have seen no one I know. The supermarket is relatively empty, so I push myself along. I buy a brie because I can’t remember what some of the other cheeses taste like, and throw in some crackers, and a quince paste. Then I whizz round to the section with air fresheners, grab one that doesn’t look too sickly, and head for the checkout.

The checkout is dangerous, because you are exposed. Anyone can see you, and once you’re caught in the line there is no way of making a run for it. I am nervous at the checkout, and I make sure I don’t select the one manned by the girl I am supposed to know, even though it might have been quicker to do so. I am through quickly, painlessly, and push my trolley at pace towards the grog shop. But standing at the sliding doors, waiting for me, is a young man. One I cannot avoid: Tom Little. He was a year older than James, but still in his group. He has visited us, stayed, camped, partied, played board games, and stretched out on couches eating snacks and watching movies. A mate.

‘Hi, Dave. Mr Martin.’ Tom is tall and slim, with broad, angular shoulders and pale, still-adolescent skin that I’m sure annoys him.

‘Tommy. How are you?’ He is one of the kids who took James’s death very hard. There was even a stage when his parents were worried about him; he was so down, they thought he might be at risk. I remember he wanted to come out to our place all the time after we lost James. He didn’t want to be near the grave; he just wanted to be around what had existed before. Like all of us. We tried to be supportive, but we had too much of our own stuff to be of much help. Another person I failed.

‘I’m okay, thanks. How are you?’