Will notices behind April the attention the two of them are being paid by Mick Touch at the bar. He nods at Will and screws up his face in an expression that says, Get in there, my son!

‘I was such a dick that night,’ Will says.

‘I was a bitch.’

‘Bullshit.’

‘The whole damaged-goods routine. What a fucking embarrassment I am.’

‘Stop it.’

‘Let’s just not talk about it any more, yeah?’

‘I’m so sorry, though.’

‘Honestly, Will, let’s forget it.’ She mimes sweeping something under a carpet. ‘Time to move on.’

‘Sorry,’ Will mumbles again.

‘Not like you haven’t got enough to worry about,’ April says. ‘Your nan, Alfie …’

‘I’m cool,’ Will lies.

‘Righto. Any word on Alfie?’

Will shakes his head. ‘Spoke to the hospital again today. He’s been transferred. Say they’ll let me know where he is, but …’

‘I’m sure he’s fine.’

‘Sure he is.’

‘Everything’ll come good,’ April says, laying her hand on his.

It’s not only Alfie who’s been weighing on Will’s mind. Nor is it just the situation with Nain, or his misery over the fall-out with April. In moments when he can ignore those most pressing worries, he dwells instead on the bizarre events of these recent months.

Alfie is safe now, and Will is certain that it was dying Alfie who was the messenger. He is confident it’s all over now. But that surety brings little peace.

Why me? asks a voice in lulls in the day and the depths of night. Why did time bend for me, so I could save a life? What makes Alfie such a special case?

But any attempt to analyse it all leaves him with a feeling that some time needs to pass. Trying to get to grips with the saga right now feels like he’s trying to comprehend the entirety of the Earth with his face a centimetre away from the ground – a task as futile as looking for the secrets of the universe with a microscope.

‘We’re attracting some attention,’ Will says, as Mick Touch begins thrusting his hips back and forth, shagging the air.

April says nothing, staring out of the window. Her grip on Will’s hand falls loose.

‘I am sorry,’ Will says again.

‘Yeah,’ she whispers, not looking at him.

Will notices how her hand has begun to shake. ‘You’re still really angry, aren’t you?’

‘Fucking hell,’ she mutters.

‘You OK?’ Will sees now that her face is bloodless. ‘What’s up?’

She looks back at Will, forcing some composure. ‘Fine. Fine. You were saying?’ Her voice is breathy. She grabs his hand again. Her grip is cold and greasy with sweat.

‘Something’s wrong,’ Will says.

‘Not at all.’ Her smile wobbles.

Will glances out of the window. Just metres away, a car finishes parking at the roadside. It’s a two-seater Mercedes, ivory with huge glossy black wheels.