He wakes up in his original room, the one he shared with Yvonne on their first night here. Her stuff has gone, but he knows she’s downstairs, waiting for him, ready with her stories and excuses. It’s what he’s asked for, the whole story. And this is probably his only chance to hear it, because once he gets back home, he never wants to hear anything about Yvonne or Kenya ever again.

Purity has left his bag by the door and he manages to sort himself out a little, having a shower to wash away the smell of the club and the girl he slept with last night. But in the mirror he still looks wrecked, in need of a shave, plus the bags under his eyes are huge and dark and the bruise around his eye has turned a greenish shade of purple.

There’s another text from Dad, but the message is still the same, Call me when you get this. He’s not ready to think about Dad, about his part in all of this, the secrets he’s kept. There’s only so much he can be angry about at one time.

At the top of the steps he stalls, closes his eyes and tries to picture Mum. What she would advise him to do now, how she would feel about this. But it’s hard, so hard, because even though she was his mum, the closest person to him for those first eight years, it was only eight years. Sometimes it feels impossible to know what she was really like. How well did he know her really? All he has are his memories and the things people like Dad and Yvonne tell him, and now he knows he can’t even trust them.

Yvonne sits at the dining table, a book and a cup of coffee in front of her. He doesn’t acknowledge her, but goes straight to the kitchen where he boils a pan of water and makes a sandwich.

Eventually he goes back through and sits opposite her, but can’t bring himself to look up at her directly, scared of what emotion will arise. He still feels anger, but there’s also sadness and a feeling of being let down, massively disappointed.

‘You went out last night?’ she asks. ‘In Nairobi?’

He tries to focus on his sandwich, but it’s not enough, so rubs at the red smudge of the club stamp which remains on his left hand. ‘Yep.’ The bread lodges in his throat and the coffee is too hot. It’s all hard work. He doesn’t even have the energy to eat. He drops his hands either side of the plate and Yvonne puts her hand over his. ‘Do you want to come for a walk with me?’