‘I’ll make you,’ she says, still smiling. ‘At gunpoint.’

‘You don’t need a gun,’ he says with a weak smile. ‘You could beat me up with your eyes closed.’

‘Ooh, give me a few months and you’ll be beating me up . . .’

‘Eh?’

‘I’ve no idea what I just said,’ she admits, feeling him coming back and wanting it to continue. She thinks fast, biting her bottom lip. ‘Oh, I was going to ask your advice.’

‘Me?’ He blinks and looks at her.

‘Yeah, er . . . do you think it’s weird sharing a bathroom with me? You know, like . . . should I use another set of rooms or is it okay to share with you and Harry? You know, we’ve got loads of rooms and . . . er . . . what do you think?’ She trails off, knowing it was the weakest request for advice ever thought up on the spot. For a second she wants the ground to open up and feels a rare blush coming into her cheeks. He stares at her. She’s sure he can see the awful question for what it is. He rubs his chin and nods.

‘Up to you really,’ he says, drifting back off. A double-edged sword. On the one hand she feels relief that he didn’t pick up on her ham-fisted attempt to keep him talking, but on the other she feels frustration at his loss of attention again.

‘Carry this for me?’ she asks, holding out the bag of pistols while picking up the empty mugs of coffee and thinking to tell Harry off again for not taking his empties.

He takes the bag and waits like the puppy he has become for her to go through so he can follow and wait and follow and wait. She passes him the mugs while she locks the back door then takes the mugs back off him. Anything to keep the interactions going. Anything to find a spark of conversation.

‘Got steak tonight,’ she says, walking with him through the corridors. ‘Lean steak, of course . . . and I asked for a nice garden salad. Nice and cleansing. Do you like wine? What about beer? You a lager or bitter man?’

‘Er . . . not, er . . . pardon?’

‘Lager or bitter?’

‘Er, not that bothered really.’

She hides the frustration. She knows more about him than any person has a right to know about someone else. She spent hours of her life reading and re-reading every word about him ever printed and she knows he preferred lager but also really liked real ales.

‘What about real ales? I used to love a real ale.’

He shrugs and nods. Hands in pockets as he shoulders the door open to the main room.

‘Empties,’ Safa says instantly, giving Harry the look as he hovers near the food table.

‘Aye,’ he says. ‘We messing now? Is this steak? It smells like steak. Is it steak?’