‘Whiskey then. Get Chloe a glass of that good stuff, the one your boss fobbed you off with after you thought you were getting a pay rise. Now, Chloe. Either tell me everything, or tell me nothing. If you don’t wanna say the name “Jack” ever again, that’s fine by me. I’ll make sure you’ve forgotten he ever existed in no time.’

‘No,’ I protest. ‘I’ll never forget.’

‘Oh babes, what the hell did he do? It’s not like you to be so … crushed.’

I wince. I haven’t had a chance to think about what physically happened to Jack yet, but oh God, what if he was crushed? Did every bone in his body break? Did he bleed to death?

‘Did he hit you?’ Fergus asks, his tone low and solemn.

‘God, NO.’ I stand, joining them.

‘Because if he did, I’ll kill him for you. I will, you know. I’ll kill the bastard.’

Fergus clenches his fists.

‘That’s right, Fergie my love,’ Beth whoops, giving her husband a supportive pat on the back. ‘Let’s kill him!’

‘No, you don’t understand.’

‘I do. I do, babes.’ She edges towards me, shooing Fergus away like a pigeon and reaching out to give me a hug. ‘Ah, you really liked him, didn’t you? You thought he might be the—’

‘Beth, no, don’t hug me!’

‘Whoa. Okay,’ she jumps back.

‘I’m sorry,’ I try again. ‘He’s …’

I’m trembling. I notice it in my knees, particularly the left one. God, it’s trembling so hard that it’s going to dislocate. I slap my hands down, trying to control it. My hands are clammy, yet cold. I might be sick.

‘Can we get some air?’ I ask.

Fergus has already started doing burpees in the back garden. I follow Beth out front and sit on the brick wall, staring at the grey pavement, and at Beth’s dainty bare feet.

‘We should be in Greenwich,’ I say, catching my breath.

‘So why are you here? In Islington?’

‘It’s that comedy night. You know, Jack’s mate? The crass one?’

‘I dunno …’

‘Ross Robson?’

‘Never heard of him.’

‘No, you don’t get it. He’s, he’s,’ my breathing is shallow; my voice is cracking; ‘he’s dead …’

‘Yep!’ Beth goes in for the hug I told her not to do. She squeezes me and pulls my face down onto her shea-butter-scented shoulders. Like a mother consoling her child, she strokes my hair and kisses the top of my head, repeating her words as if whispering a lullaby, ‘He’s dead to you. Good. Good riddance. You said, it. He’s dead. Dead to you—’

‘NO,’ I break away, my eyes heavy with tears. ‘Beth. He’s dead.’