He was supposed to be moving in next week, although it looks like he’s done a fine job of it already. Two new sofas have replaced the L-shaped makeshift bed I’d slept on in the weeks after Jack’s death. The coffee table is littered with opened ASOS packages. Rudolf isn’t anywhere to be seen. I fixate on the tealight candles on the windowsill. Some are burnt out. I wonder if they’re the same ones that Jack lit months ago, or if they’re new, the wick still warm. I should say hello, but the clanging of a tin lid on the kitchen floor beats me to it.

‘AGH!’ Freddie yells. ‘HOLY MOTHERING FUCK OF … OH, SHIT ME. SHIT!’

I back into the wall, and echo, ‘AGH!’

Freddie clambers down to pick up the lid, his hands suffering a bad bout of butterfingers. He’s catching his breath whilst repeating more fucks and shits. His face is very different to Jack’s, and not just because he’s clean-shaven; his features are strikingly ‘Trish’ with those small, burning eyes and cheekbones that mean business. He’s built like Jack, though, and perhaps it’s the lack of hairiness that makes him look a tad overweight. I never thought of Jack as overweight, more a giant.

‘I’m sorry!’ I blurt out.

‘You scared the shit out of me!’ He’s shielding himself with the lid.

‘I didn’t know you’d moved in.’

‘I thought you’d moved out.’

‘I only went to … erm …’ I don’t know how to explain myself. ‘I’m – sorry.’

‘I’m done. I’m done, done, done,’ Freddie says, more to himself than to me. His hands fly up as if he’s being held at gunpoint and the lid once again crashes to the floor. We both yelp, although mine’s a gasp and his is a squeal. In his frantic state, he stubs his toe on the cooker and I’m hoping he’s referring to that when he calls out, ‘You crazy bitch!’

He hops past me and throws himself onto a sofa. Pulling his sock off, he repeats his yelp-squeal, stretching out his toes.

‘I’m not being dramatic,’ he whimpers. ‘I’ve got an ingrowing toenail.’

‘Ouch,’ I offer.

‘I play a lot of rugby, you know.’

I nod and decide to get him a drink of water. The glasses are in the same cupboard as always; the same cups, the same beakers and tumblers. I spot a Beatles mug lurking in the back. That belongs to me. As I close the cupboard, it creaks on its hinges. Freddie lets out another yelp, but much quieter than the previous outbursts.

‘It’s like living in a haunted fucking house,’ he says, throwing his head back into a cushion and closing his eyes. ‘I’ve only been here for three days, but ah man, I’m done. I’m so DONE.’

‘You keep saying that.’