“Thanks,” I say, even though he didn’t really do much to help, then I go back to my scrubbing. Why is he here? He’s caught me off guard. The police told me not to talk to the press, but it’s Mum who’d hate it most.

Before I can figure out how to tell him to get lost he says, “One of them dive-bombed and took my son’s ice cream clean out of his hand a few days ago. Scared us both stupid.”

“It happens,” I say, shrugging and not looking up as I keep scrubbing, hoping he’ll hear the lack of interest in my voice. Even though the first table is white with chalky shit I move on to another table just so I can turn my back to him. But he’s like a seagull himself, unafraid to stick around even when it’s obvious he’s not wanted.

I remember the photo of him posted and shared on Twitter and Facebook six months ago, being led away from number 52 by the police after he smashed Meg’s windows. His glasses were almost knocked off his nose, his mouth frozen around an ugly “F” at the camera, his hair wild. After his article about Meg and Grace was published, everyone was so angry. Mum, Zara, even Sylvia took to the internet to write all sorts of nasty stuff about him. They said they had to speak out and defend their friend. Jon didn’t reply to any of the online comments, but then someone tipped him over the edge by anonymously posting a photo of his sick kid in the Summervale News Facebook group. Whoever it was had left a comment but hadn’t had the balls to post from their real account: Perhaps Jon Katrin should spend more time looking after his poor son than poking his nose into other people’s lives.

The image got thousands of likes and hundreds more comments, things like I don’t know what must be worse for the poor kid, having Jon Katrin as a dad or having cancer.

I was busy at college and working at the pub while all of this was going on, too consumed by my own life to get involved in any of it beyond listening to a couple of Mum’s rants. I didn’t say anything, but I thought they were going too far. I remember how Mum’s hatred of Jon lit her up, how there was talk of little else in the salon, how sometimes it seemed like she was enjoying it. I remember reading about Jon’s arrest in the Echo—it was framed as “Drunk local journalist in twisted ‘revenge’ plot against Ashford’s best mum.” The article mentioned that when he was arrested Jon had been shouting about something to do with his son—that stuck with me—but I don’t remember anything else. In the end, the fact it was his first offense meant he got away with a fine, community service, and a restraining order, which made Mum pull at her hair and mumble something about the world going to shit.