They drove, this odd combination of people, to Havenhurst, and pulled up outside, not down in the underground, as from the sidewalk there would only be three steps for Lomita to negotiate. Yes, she was coming in, there appeared to be no choice.

The apartment was dark and cool. Curtains drawn, everything as he had left it, their effort over the years of fighting the sun from invading the cool had caused them to fade from the green to an insipid version. Patches where the sun was less ruthless gave a hint of the original colour. It was more successful as a colour with the fade, in fact. Nature at work again.

There was a smell of trash that needed to be emptied and he noticed the apartment had the same brown flooring as Lomita’s house. Without the shine, it was wood minus effort. An equation which equalled no Manita.

Lomita didn’t comment on his accommodation, probably realising his lack of commitment to it, and therefore that it didn’t demand an attempt at a consoling appreciation.

He went to the logs, left of the fireplace, and sure enough, the second one from the bottom of the pile, hollowed out during an entire stoned evening with a Swiss Army knife that he always carried, still contained the Glock 17. Lomita asked to look at it and handled it with a surprising authority.

Ever being the only witness to her ease and efficiency.

She interpreted his look, understanding his observation.

‘You don’t think I was married to Roberto without understanding how to use a gun, do you? Seriously? For my own protection, of course, but he taught me, it was an absolute necessity.’

And then as an afterthought.

‘Or perhaps you missed that bit?’

‘What bit?’

‘Of my life story.’

She said with more than a suggestion of mockery.

‘No, I was with that bit, I admit I was a bit drifty. But I was there for that.’

And then as if he sensed her doubt he reconfirmed.

‘No, I remember that bit well. How could I not?’

‘A Beretta 70 he gave me, carried eight rounds in the magazine, and it was a close-range gun. But, hey, I figured any self-defence was going to be at close range. Don’t you think?’

A question Ever had never been asked to consider before. Though he nodded, as if an expert.

‘This is a cumbersome gun though, heavy. Pack a punch. Where’s your ammunition?’

He didn’t respond quickly enough for her.

‘Surely you didn’t just buy enough for the mag? That would have been stupid, and suspicious. A giveaway that you just wanted to kill someone. One person. No, always buy a stack. You know, convincing them it’s for the range, or hunting. That it has an ongoing usage.’

He was mesmerised by her language for weaponry: the basic and innate understanding of the code – the code of guns.