‘Can I ask why you’re in Bangkok?’ Justin prompts.

‘Oh, yeah! The plot thickens … Well, I thought it would. But I thought wrong.’

‘Cryptic.’

‘Sorry. Jack and I came here together in March, and … hang on,’ I take out my phone and find the original photo to show Justin. ‘You’ve no doubt seen this sort of thing on cheap souvenirs, yeah?’

Justin nods, perhaps unsure.

‘Well, Jack took this photo, thinking he’d captured something unusual – funny.’

‘It’s kind of weird.’

‘Right! It’s so weird! And it’s hanging on our kitchen wall, massive.’

‘Cool.’

‘Yeah, that’s what we thought. Except we also thought there was more to it.’

‘Like, how?’

‘Like, the fella. Why was he sitting there? What made him rock up and get inside a trolley? Look – he’s staring straight down the lens. Jack loved the notion that there was something more behind the picture, a story etched into his face. You know how you invent silly things or obsess over stupid stuff when you’re in love?’

‘Of course. Sabrina and I were obsessed with the number fifty-four.’

‘Y’what?!’

‘Yeah. We’d only just started dating and we were saying how much we loved each other, all goo-goo. I said I loved her twice as much as she loved me, then she said, no, she loved me ten times more … and I blurted out “fifty-four!” It made her laugh. Like, really, really laugh.’

‘So, it became a thing?’

‘For sure. Every card we sent – birthdays, anniversaries – “I love you, fifty-four” and a string of kisses. It was our number, our stupid … whatever.’

‘I get it.’

‘And your thing was this picture.’

‘Yep,’ I jiggle the remaining beer around the bottle and knock it back. ‘I came here to find out what Jack wanted to know. And, well, the answer is nothing. It was a gimmick.’

‘I’m sorry, Chloe.’ He rubs his palm against his dark stubble.

‘It’s shit, isn’t it? I even feel sorry for me. For Jack.’

Justin takes the garland of flowers and puts it around my neck. We drink more beer and do a bit of people-watching: it’s a fantastic spot for it. It’s nice to have a mate. He’s easy-going and it doesn’t feel strange. I mean, this is what you do on holidays, isn’t it? You chat to strangers, you connect, simply because you’re both there, fish out of water. If it weren’t for the consistent twinge of pain running from my head to toe, the pain that’s been present since my towel dropped in front of Jack’s dad, I’d probably have moments here and there when I’d forget about Jack’s death, sat here, a spectator of Bangkok.

‘What did you hope to achieve?’ Justin asks. ‘By coming here.’

I heave a sigh. ‘Meaning.’

‘Okay …’