Kash didn’t press the topic. “You’re a popular lass. Everyone’s been asking after you. I think Smiffy might’ve shed a couple of tears.”

“Fuck off. It was probably wind.” She wafted her free hand at him. “Get back home before Makeenah reports you as a misper.”

He stood and knuckled her cheek. “Don’t be a stranger.”

“I won’t. I’ll text you. Tell your mum thanks for the curry.”

He was almost to the edge of the bay when she called him back.

“What’s up?” he said.

“The fire—” She shook her head at her own stupidity. She was so addled, she hadn’t even thought to ask. “Do they know how it started?”

His expression hardened. She’d seen him punch a wall once, and he’d looked more placid then than he did now. “Early indications suggest petrol,” he said as if reading from a formal report. “Poured through the letterbox at the front and thrown through the window you’d smashed in the kitchen. Major Crimes are treating it as arson and attempted murder.”

“Jesus.” She’d known that, somewhere at the back of her battered brain, but it was appalling to have her suspicions confirmed. Perhaps that was why she hadn’t asked.

“We’ll get the fuckers,” he said. “Most of Major Crimes are working it, and loads of our lot volunteered for the overtime.”

“Is that why I’m so popular?” she said. It was easier to make a joke than stew over what she’d just been told. “Everyone’s getting double bubble because of me.”

He laughed. “You might be on to something there. Give Jem some of that curry when she wakes up. It’ll clear her sinuses right out.”

“I have no doubt of that.” Rosie had encountered his mum’s curries on numerous occasions, and none of them had stinted on the spice. “But I’m not sure her doc will approve. I’ll see you soon, mate.”

Jem stirred as he left, lifting her head and rubbing at a crick in her neck. It would have been such a normal gesture, had her hand not been trailing a couple of IV lines. She mimicked writing something, and Rosie gave her the pad and pen Harriet had provided.

You look worn out, Jem scrawled in a wavering script. You don’t have to stay.

“I know I don’t,” Rosie said. “But you’re no trouble, so I thought I’d keep an eye on you until your dad gets here.”

I’m sorry, Rosie. For all of this, Jem wrote slowly, her hand trembling.

“Hey,” Rosie said. “There’s nothing you need to apologise for.”

Jem tapped the pad with the pen as if about to disagree, but then touched the bandage covering Rosie’s forearm instead. How many stitches?

“Thirteen.” Rosie chuckled as Jem drew a shocked face. “Yeah, I think she added an extra one for irony’s sake.”