Petra closed her eyes and wished herself away. Yes, his pain was unbearable, and what she was feeling was unforgivable – she was feeling rejected for a ghost, jealous of this man’s dead daughter. How could she compete? She should just stand up, apologise and leave.

But she continued to speak, as if she had the power to reach directly into his broken heart and soothe it with her prattle. ‘Ellis told me about the studio too – about who bought it.’ She looked at him, and when he didn’t return her glance, she pressed on. ‘You’re working for the man in charge of MyHealth, the same people who let Beccie down. Why are you helping him, Vincent? Why are you doing this to yourself?’

‘I need the money, don’t I?’ he said, shifting his body to disconnect Petra again.

The talk of money, the mundane matter of making a living, at least proved that he hadn’t entirely committed to the insane notion of ‘joining Beccie’. ‘You can find other work. You’re torturing yourself. Please—’

‘I don’t understand why you’re so interested.’ He spoke into the air in front of him.

‘Because I… Because I care for you.’

‘Why?’ he said. ‘Am I some charity case to you? Are you looking for a cause to make your life worthwhile?’

Petra felt like she’d been slapped. She gasped and drew back. ‘Jesus.’ She wrung her arms around herself, mirroring his position of a moment before. ‘Okay.’ Suddenly they were a metre apart on the bench.

‘Sorry. I didn’t…’ He shifted over to her, reaching out his hand abortively before grinding the heel of his palm into his eyes. ‘I didn’t mean that. I’m just so tired.’

A smash of glass and a belt of forced laughter. Two of the kids across the park were jostling with each other, play-fighting in a loud, attention-seeking way. They were wearing maroon-and-navy tracksuits that looked lifted straight out of the eighties; retro two-stripe trainers. The third boy was hitting a rubbish bin with a stick. Thunk thunk thunk.

So many signs blaring at her that she should leave. Just go home. Right now. But she returned to the falling man who had located a sore spot, telling her a truth about herself that she’d spent a lifetime trying to evade, and sat. ‘That Ellis Brown…’

‘Yeah?’

‘How did you meet him? Did you know him before or did he just turn up now?’

‘I met him a few weeks ago. He—’ Vincent paused, frowned. ‘He just turned up at my front door.’

‘Let me guess. Just before you won the Metamuse tickets?’

‘Yeah, you’re right.’

‘What did he say?’

‘He said he could show me how to contact Beccie.’

‘Did he use her name? I mean, was there any proof that he knew about her before you told him?’

‘I can’t remember. But I’m not totally stupid. He knew things that nobody would know.’ But he sounded less adamant in the cold night air than in the fraught, sleep-deprived atmosphere of his house.