The shallow basin in Lucky’s bathroom was pale blue and jutted out from the wall like an open drawer; the soap dish had once served as a butter bowl in the Stanmore franchise; the mirror was small, as he preferred, large enough for a head and neck. He disliked bathrooms in which one wall was half-mirror and you saw yourself from all corners. That modern design in which you were part of the effect. He shaved slowly, pausing to stretch his skin and check for cuts. There had come a point after which stubble and beards no longer suited Lucky and he duly shaved every morning. There was an age after which he regularly cut his hair, never again letting his curls reach the length that once suggested youth extended and music and classical statues. Instead, disordered hair now signalled self-neglect and delusion. All Lucky could do was attempt to appear neat each day. Would the Wheel of Fortune make-up people bother working much on him?

A ringing phone raised him from this shallowness. His number was listed in the telephone directory: he let the past discover him here in this rented flat. It might be someone calling to catch up, or Emily, or a Wheel of Fortune producer, or a loan officer revisiting former applications and having second thoughts.

Joanna Matfield introduced herself and explained that Henry Matfield was her son. She allowed a pause after saying the name. This was the moment when some people walked away from her, when they hung up the phone. Lucky could picture her at the coroner’s court, her feet dropping like she carried an injury, her torso long, her hair short and black. At the time he watched her like she might have some answers.

‘I received a call from a reporter,’ said Joanna. ‘Someone writing for the New Yorker magazine.’

‘I like Emily,’ Lucky offered. ‘Did you give an interview?’

‘After the shooting, our lawyer advised me and my husband, Adam, not to contact you or the families, not to speak to the media. But Adam is dead—it’s been a few years now. I would like to speak publicly about what happened. No more hiding. I want to apologise to the people who lost someone in the cafe.’

‘I trust Emily completely.’

He would like to hear that conversation, to sit between Emily and Joanna. He had questions of his own. Henry fucked up his life, too. Take away Henry and the cafe could still be open, all those people alive. Sophia might be running the place. All of it could be hers.

‘Are the families of the victims angry with you? Have they contacted you?’ asked Lucky.

Joanna said: ‘The victims’ families have the right to feel any way they want to feel about me. They’ve been hurt in the worst way.’

‘What will you say about your son?’