Sebastian didn’t answer, pretending he hadn’t heard. In fact, he had lain awake between the hours of three and five. He had occupied himself by plotting his funeral, his favourite pastime during recent sleepless nights. By now he had considered all aspects of the event, giving it the same lavish attention some people gave to weddings. He had thought a lot about the music and, crucially, the venue. He didn’t want it to be a church. (He had nothing against Christians.) He didn’t want it to be the meditation pavilion next to the school. (He had nothing against Buddhists or mindfulness meditators.) It could be a function room at the convention centre, although that would lack ambience and possibly feel flat.

He heard a loud thwacking sound, then another, which meant Teena had seen a cockroach. ‘You little fucker,’ she said, and her satisfied tone suggested she’d made a kill. She came back into the bedroom to see him holding the box of masks.

‘What’ll we do with these?’ he asked, looking up.

‘Wear them to have sex?’ Sweaty from her run, she tipped her head and grinned. Having taken off her suit, she wore briefs and a sports bra. Sinewy muscles gleamed on her abdomen and thighs.

‘No. Maybe. No.’ He smiled distractedly then frowned. He did not want to be cheered up.

Moving to get dressed, he paused long enough to let Teena take a look at the nape of his neck. This was where the shrapnel had gone in. It had happened three weeks before, during his last trip to the outer districts, where he was visiting bases to report on resourcing concerns. The wound wasn’t a big deal – in fact he’d been secretly pleased about it, welcoming it as a sort of battle decoration – and he was due to have the shrapnel cut out in a few days’ time. A scan had shown the offending sliver, lodged a half-inch in, an innocuous stroke of black amid the grey of surrounding tissue. But this was not all the scan had shown; there was another, larger mass, the thought of which had been keeping him awake at night.

‘Some training exercise,’ said Teena, shaking her head as she gently pressed the spot where the shrapnel had entered, and he smiled.

‘Well, not everyone can be as competent as you.’ He was proud of his girlfriend. Raised by her grandmother in a Hounslow council flat, she had risen through the ranks after joining special forces. Having applied for a transfer several years ago, she now worked at a desk job, handling logistics.

‘Lucky, though,’ she added. ‘It meant you got that scan.’

It was past eleven. ‘I’ve got to get going,’ he said.

Teena threw him a look that said it was about time, then went to take a shower. He left the flat before she emerged again.