“First of all, I came on a trip, a tour. Very cheap, just four days. I’d never been to The Hague. I’d not even been to Brussels. The buildings in London were the highest I’d ever seen, that is, seen so many of them. And the roofs were mostly flat. I thought of climbing the Houses of Parliament, I thought of Westminster Abbey. I came here four years ago. I’ve never been able to get building work here, it’s always been in kitchens. But that was good enough.”

He looked at his suspended leg and, covered though it was in plaster, he shivered. Neither of us said anything. We all thought the same thing, I’m sure of that. What would become of him? What do you do when the great thing in your life, the only thing, is taken away? I thought of Jonny too and the awful life he had had as a child. Was it any worse than Wim’s, the same, better? It was impossible to judge. Had Wim inherited his passion for the heights, for walking in the sky, from his father? Or was that ridiculous, imagining there could be such an inherited tendency? It was more likely that he had wanted to follow his father’s example. Perhaps Maurits had been his hero, a figure to worship. He didn’t say. One thing seemed certain, his father was the only one of his relatives who hadn’t abandoned him, let him down or cold-shouldered him. He had died instead.

Jonny’s had been a brilliant revenge, a stroke of genius. The same day as when Wim told us his story, the police picked him up. Where or how they found him I don’t know. Later we discovered he had appeared in the magistrates’ court, been charged with causing grievous bodily harm to Wim. Just as we never again saw Liv, so Jonny passed out of our lives. But not entirely, not forever.