It seems mad that only this morning, Jack was staring at this man’s nonchalant face as he ate Rice Krispies without milk. Neither of us remembered to buy milk yesterday. He was spouting off, delving into all kinds of deeper reasons why the man was sat there, refusing to believe he was just a fella sat in a trolley. He said how one day we’d go back there, find him and ask him. Of course, I was unaware that Jack’s last words to me would be, ‘What’s behind the picture?’ All I’d replied with was, ‘Gotta dash. See ya later.’

I place my glass down and see the sink is clean and empty. The dishes have been done. They aren’t even draining: they’ve been tidied away, meaning there isn’t a trace of Jack’s bolognese remaining.

‘Agh.’ A painful, single cry escapes me.

I clasp my hands across my mouth. The beat of my heart is heavy: a dull bassline, drowning out the natural rhythm of the night. My eyes are closed, fighting back tears. If I cry, I’ll be admitting defeat, buying into this ridiculous notion that Jack is no more. He’s here. I can feel him.

I grip the edge of the sink; take a deep breath; turn around.

And smile.

I can see Jack as clearly as I’d seen him this morning. He’s wearing the shirt he wore the day he gave me a key. It’s off-white and baggy, hanging out loose over jeans. His beard is wild, his hair in need of a trim; exactly how it was this morning. His presence in the kitchen is huge as usual, in this tiny flat. He looks at ease; at home.

‘I knew you were here,’ I mouth.

He points to the sofa and I nod. Taking the red bobbled throw, I wrap it around me like a giant shawl and curl up. I rest my head on the cushion shaped like the head of Rudolf the Red-nosed Reindeer. I know it’s not Christmas, but this cushion is so soft, so dreamy, that Jack considered it a crime to keep it hidden for eleven months of the year.

Closing my eyes, I will Jack to lie here beside me: to smooth down my hair; to stroke my cheek. I’m expecting him to suggest we watch another episode of the true crime documentary we’re currently bingeing on, although he’ll fall asleep within the first ten minutes and I’ll have to re-watch that ten minutes all over again at the next sitting. Unless we’re at the pub, he can’t keep his eyes open beyond nine-thirty. Rudolf always gets the blame.

‘Jack?’ I whisper.

I can feel him. He’s here.

He’s definitely still here.

4

I open one eye, and the wall clock above the telly tells me it’s just after six.