‘Someone saw a speed boat there beforehand.’

‘Gotta be deliberate. How else would a fire start in the middle of the bloody sea?’

‘Oh, I dunno, one of the gulls might have dropped a lit cigarette . . .’

I see Spike’s trilby above the crowd. Zoë is crying and it makes her look even more wrecked than usual. Ham is strumming something melancholy on his guitar.

We’ve wandered across the sand to the pier a couple of times, when the tide’s been low and we’ve been high. You can stand underneath, and though the ironwork’s covered in bird shit, and it stinks, you can see glimpses of what it used to be through the gaps: faded signs advertising sticks of Brighton Rock and ‘best stouts and ales’, and old theatre tickets blowing around like a snowstorm. All that paper must be fuelling the fire.

I sense someone watching me.

Turning, I see a woman in uniform. My face arranges itself into a sneer before I recognize her.

Kerry.

It’s too late to get away. As she walks towards me, I’m conscious of how filthy my parka is, and grateful that at least the smoke should drown out the smell of my friends.

There have been half a dozen times since her sister’s wedding when I’ve thought I’ve seen her: turning a corner in the Lanes, or through a shop window. I’ve always hidden, rather than face her. Now the shock in her face is worse than any mirror.

‘Hello, Joel. Isn’t it awful?’ She looks beautiful, even in the unflattering green jumpsuit, even with no make-up.

‘Can’t believe it,’ I say. ‘Bastards.’

She smiles nervously at the others, then back at me. ‘So how’ve you been? You working?’

Zoë laughs. ‘Joel doesn’t need to work. He’s got the Bank of Mum and Dad with their endless cash machine.’

Kerry frowns at her. Zoë’s only three years older than us, but she could be the poster girl for how drugs fuck up your complexion.

‘I’m between jobs, Kerry, but something’ll turn up.’

Spike stands up. ‘If you’re not gonna introduce us, I guess I’ll have to do it for you, you rude wanker. I’m Spike,’ he says, raising his trilby and holding out his other hand.

I cringe when I see her small, clean hand take Spike’s, with dirt and tobacco embedded under his nails.

‘This is Ham,’ I say, ‘and you’ve already met Zoë.’

‘With two dots,’ Zoë says.

‘Don’t forget the dots.’ I laugh, feeling protective of both women, somehow. ‘This is Kerry, we . . . went to school together. Works for the ambulance service now. She’s cool.’

No one speaks and eventually Kerry says, ‘Right, better go. Nice to meet you all.’

We all regard the pier for a moment.

‘Looks like a lost cause to me,’ Spike says.