‘It’s like the rules, innit?’ His voice is mellow, the weed getting to work on him. ‘Don’t you dare be honest. Don’t you dare look like you’re not in control. Just put on the show. The fucking show. Fucking spot on.’

The substances that course through Alfie’s brain have allowed him to drop his guard this far, but no further. He doesn’t tell Will how there are days when his brain is like fog, when he doesn’t have the energy to know who he is. He doesn’t tell Will about the nights that pass without a wink of sleep, when he wishes he could cry out but can’t, and, anyway, who would come if he did? He doesn’t tell Will about the debts that he’s amassed. He doesn’t tell him because that would mean acknowledging them as fact.

‘Why do we do it?’ Will asks. ‘Why do we have to play this part, do you think?’

‘God knows, Parks.’ Alfie kicks off his trainers and paddles a foot in the calm water. His expression lightens. ‘Who are we anyway? Who are we really? I don’t think we know, do we? We just try on outfits and play a role and see if it works.’

‘How d’you mean?’

‘I dunno. Like, look at Kris Tring. Are his photos any better cos he wears roll-neck jumpers? Don’t think he’s had an original thought in his life, but he decided to be The Artist. And I play Class Clown, don’t I?’ Alfie rolls on to his side and smiles at Will. ‘And look at you.’

‘Look at me?’

‘Yeah.’

‘Do I put on an act?’

‘Don’t flatter yourself – course you do.’

‘I don’t get it.’

‘You, with your old camera. Your it-sounds-better-on-vinyl bollocks. Your shitty old bike.’

‘What? That’s just my … stuff.’

‘It’s a good look. Good act.’

‘Oh, do fuck off.’

‘What?’

‘It’s not an act.’

‘No, of course.’

Will stares across the boat at him. ‘Am I one of those vintage dicks?’

‘One hundred per cent. You’re a solid-gold Vintage Hipster Wanker. Sorry, mate.’

The two of them giggle uncontrollably for an impossible-to-quantify period of time. Every now and then a come-back occurs to Will, with which he can hilariously take down Alfie, but each time he begins a sentence the thought vanishes, a paper brain-file that has turned to vapour. Instead, as the laughter and the tears run dry, they lie opposite each other in silence, gazing up at the night sky.