Soon music was pouring out of the enormous loudspeakers in Imo’s living room. As I sat on the sofa he put out a bowl of crisps, while humming to the music and doing a kind of dance. ‘It sounds like he’s playing seven guitars simultaneously,’ he said.

We were listening to Tommy Emmanuel, Imo’s favourite guitarist. He just couldn’t stop moving to the music. He refilled my glass and spilled a little. I reluctantly took another sip. The tequila still made my throat and chest burn, but not as much as before.

We sat there for a while, just listening to the music, drinking. Imo sent a text to someone.

‘Just checking that your brother is OK,’ he said.

I looked at the bottle. We’d finished maybe a quarter of it. I was starting to feel the effects.

‘So how come you never got married, Imo?’

He looked at me with a frown. ‘Why do you ask?’

I really didn’t know, and I said so. Maybe it was because it was impossible not to think of Mari all the time. Truth be told, before she died I had started to think of her as someone I would be with for a very long time. I knew it was silly – we hadn’t been dating that long, and we were still young – but I just hadn’t been able to stop myself.

‘Well,’ Imo started, then paused. ‘It’s never really been that important to me. And anyway,’ he said, patting his belly as he burped discreetly, ‘it would be a shame to keep all this Imo for just one person, don’t you think?’

He laughed at his own joke. I smiled and took a sip. He did the same.

‘Has there never been … someone special?’ I asked, pulling a face at the mouthful I’d just swallowed.

Imo angled his left ear to his shoulder, then did the same with his right. The bones in his neck cracked. ‘Well, yes,’ he said, and lowered his eyes. ‘Of course there has.’

‘So what happened?’

He let out a heavy sigh. ‘Nothing,’ he said. ‘I guess that was the problem.’

Imo leaned forwards and emptied his glass. Poured himself another. There was still a fair bit left in my glass.

‘She didn’t want me, so…’ He left the rest of the sentence hanging.

My phone rang. I glanced at the screen. Oskar. I stood up and went into the kitchen.

‘What’s up?’ I said, and closed the door behind me. ‘Did you find Børre?’

‘We did,’ Oskar said.

‘And?’

He waited a moment. ‘He said that he did see you yesterday evening.’

I snorted. ‘And where would that have been, exactly?’

‘At school. In one of the windows on the first floor.’

‘That’s bullshit,’ I said angrily. ‘I was at home the whole time. Sitting in my room. Jesus.’