‘Hey, look. About last time. I was worried about you. And, well – I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have behaved like that.’

‘It’s fine,’ he says, looking down.

‘Here.’ I hand him the Proust that is still in my pocket. ‘To make up for the one I took from you.’

He looks uncertainly at it, but then takes it.

‘Thanks,’ he says. ‘I didn’t go back there in the end. You were right, it was dangerous.’ He smiles at me but there is sadness in it. ‘So, how are you?’ he says, brightening.

‘I’ve been better.’

He stands in the pause, his arms at his sides, not knowing what to do. I don’t know what to do either so we hang there awkwardly until I say, ‘Can you help me with this?’ I indicate the terminal.

He smiles and sits at the screen, completely at home. His fingers dance across the keys with no effort.

‘I need to send an email to my solicitors, but I don’t know where to start.’

‘Solicitors? What happened?’ he says, turning his head round to face me in concern.

‘Long story,’ I say in a way that shuts off any more questions.

He pauses. ‘What’s the name of the company?’

‘I’m not sure – I know her name – Janine Cullen,’ I say, without much hope.

He taps around for a second or two before looking meaningfully at the screen again. Every now and then he hmms and nods to himself, absorbed in what he is doing.

‘Okay, got it. Here, you can send her an email from my account. Or I can do it.’

I’m dazzled by the speed at which he navigates this world. ‘Can you just say that I’m coming in to see her? Today? Like maybe now?’

He gives me a look of amusement. ‘I’m not sure that’s exactly how it works but okay – sent,’ he says.

‘Thanks, Amit,’ I say.

‘It’s fine.’

As I get up to leave he calls after me, holding up the Proust in one hand, ‘Hope it all works out.’

Her office is a twenty- or thirty-minute walk from the library, up near Paddington Green Police Station. I push open the doors and see the receptionist stiffen as I do. My hands go up to signal peace.

‘It’s okay,’ I say to calm her nerves, ‘I have an appointment.’

I recognise that my voice and appearance are a clash. Seb’s clothes haven’t survived the night very well and when I look down, I notice for the first time that there are smears of ash down my front and charcoal under my nails and over my hands. I wonder if I’ve touched my face so that I now look camouflaged and ready for battle. I brush my clothes down self-consciously but when I do, debris drops from my back on to the carpet. Twigs, grass and other clinging things.