‘Thanks,’ I say, getting up too. ‘I’ll be out of your hair in the morning.’

Seb stops as I say this and looks at me from the doorway. ‘Look, I don’t need to know what this is all about if you don’t want to say. But you should stay, at least until you get yourself sorted out.’

I laugh again and hope it’s not unkindly. ‘I don’t think getting sorted out is really for me, Seb.’

He hesitates and then finally he says, ‘I know you need the Bens and I know it’s been a long time. But—’ He has run out of words. He exhales loudly, his hands on his hips, and then adds, ‘I do worry about you being on the streets where anything could happen to you.’

Bens. I have no idea what he’s talking about. Is it me? Has my mind dropped this too or is it Seb? Instead I nod at him and then add a half-smile as if I know what this means. But I have no idea.

15

Saturday

The light as it shines through the room, its angle, its intensity, tells me that it must still be early in the morning. If I am to make any use of the day, I need to get going.

After washing I dress quickly and creep downstairs as quietly as I can. There’s no sign of Seb, who must still be asleep or already at work. My, his, coat is on the newel post where I left it and I slip it on. It has already begun to mould itself to my contours so that it feels like my own thing. The velvet collar is soft against my skin. The shoes I don’t recall removing are there in the hallway. I put them on and leave quietly, pulling the front door softly shut behind me.

Outside the February weather is cold. Something in the air gives a memory from a long-forgotten Guy Fawkes night, even though we are months on from November. There is a hint of fog and the slightest trace of sulphur in the air. I walk to a bus stop and the reality of what happened at the police station on Thursday night marches along with me. A charge of wasting police time. All I had done was to report a crime, a murder, and yet they had referred my case to the CPS to charge me.