Another almost imperceptible nod.

‘Their names are Yngve and Idun Formby. He must be close to seventy by now and she’s a couple of years younger, if I remember correctly. It’s been a while since I’ve seen them. But it follows that they were pretty old when they got me, past forty. Far too old.’

Karen swallows.

‘They weren’t able to have children of their own, as I’m sure you’ve pieced together by now, so they took a ready-made one. And by the time they realised what a disappointment I was, they were too old to be given any more adopted kids.’

The camera zooms in on Luna’s rigid face and stays there while Billy asks the next question.

‘Are you happy with yours?’

Luna’s eyes dart to the side, as though she’s trying to figure out what he means.

‘Your adopted children, I mean. Are you happy with them?’

‘Yeees . . .’ Luna says uncertainly, as though she can sense that whichever answer she chooses, it will be the wrong one.

‘Lucky you, then. Since your biological son never meant anything to you, I mean. Were you unable to have more real kids, is that why you had to go down to Africa to buy other people’s?’

‘They are my real children.’

‘No, they’re not. I’m your real child, but you never even bothered to look me up. Even though you had tonnes of money and every opportunity. And that’s charge number three. You were happy to go to Africa, but not Doggerland.’

‘I’m sorry, Billy, but I just couldn’t . . . Even if I’d known—’

‘Shut up!’

Billy screams the words.

‘Shut up, shut up, shut up!’

He continues to scream and sob until he’s interrupted by a coughing fit. The camera shakes and seems about to be turned off as an unfocused jumble of table legs, a plastic bucket, Luna’s bare feet and something that looks like a rag rug flicker past.

Then the coughing subsides, and the camera is once again pointed at Luna’s face. Her eyes wild with terror now.

The only sound is Billy’s ragged breathing. Eventually, it begins to slow. Then his voice is back, seemingly unperturbed, as though nothing happened.

‘They’re religious, too,’ he says. ‘Just like you. Believers in a higher power. You believe, don’t you?’

‘Yes, but I’m not—’

‘They believe in a god who punishes people like me,’ Billy cuts in. ‘Who will send me to hell when I die. Do you think that’s where I’ll end up, too?’

‘I don’t believe in that kind of heaven and hell.’