Jo’s house was situated at the end of a quiet cul-de-sac, and her neighbours were mostly retired couples – who clearly had a lot of time on their hands, judging by their well-tended front gardens. Both too busy – and neither particularly green-fingered – Jo and Sam had employed a gardener to tend their front and back gardens, but the tenants who’d moved in a few weeks after their move to Australia had obviously decided not to bother with his services, and Frank eyed the overgrown lawn and weed-infested borders with disapproval as he parked up on the driveway and climbed out of his car.

No one answered when he rang the bell, so he let himself in using the spare key Jo had given him. The furniture belonged to Jo and Sam, as did the white goods in the kitchen, but the personal effects belonged to the tenants, and Frank felt like an intruder under the gaze of the strangers in the photographs hanging on the hallway walls. The house smelled completely different, and the absolute silence in there, which was totally at odds with the chatter and laughter he was used to when he visited, only served to remind him of what he’d lost.

Desperate to get out of there as quickly as possible, Frank hurried through to the kitchen and checked the boiler. Pleased to discover that all it needed was a refill and for the pilot to be relit, he dealt with it and then rushed back to his car.

Worn out by the long drive after months of inactivity, Frank dumped the bags of coal he’d bought on the way home in the shed, and then made his way inside. After heating a tin of soup and buttering a couple of slices of bread, he settled in his chair to watch TV while he ate. When he’d finished, he reached for the glass he’d left behind earlier, and topped it up with fresh whisky.

Relaxed, he gazed around the room, looking at it properly for the first time in months. The bowl and saucer he’d just placed on the coffee table was surrounded by yet more dirty crockery and microwave-food containers, and every piece of furniture was coated in a thick layer of dust. He didn’t need to imagine how disgusted Maureen would be if she could see the state of the place – or the state of him, with the dark bags under his eyes, the messy, unwashed hair, and the peppery half-beard he’d grown out of laziness rather than desire. He felt as if he’d aged twenty years since the funeral, and if Maureen were here she’d be telling him to pull himself together. And she’d be right to, because he had fallen into a pit of self-pity that was sapping the life out of him.