Kat feels the now familiar tug at her insides as she walks back up the hill towards Beth’s house, a newly washed Luna trotting beside her on the lead. She pauses on the threshold, staring up at the light glowing through the glass panel above Beth’s front door. Is she’s doing the right thing? Following her instincts, taking these risks again? The focus saps her peripheral vision, so it’s a shock when someone suddenly pushes past her, too close, clipping Kat’s shoulder with theirs. Kat lets out a gasp. ‘Sorry,’ she says, on autopilot, wondering why she’s apologising for being bumped into. But instead of returning the apology, or just walking away, the offender turns to face her. It’s a young man, skinny but tall, with a pale face and dirty red hair poking out of a black beanie. He doesn’t speak, but his expression – angry and resolute – is enough for Kat’s heart to race. She wonders if he’s going to pull a knife, demand Kat’s phone and money. He’d be disappointed with Kat’s second-hand iPhone 6 and the sole two-pound coin in her pocket if he did.

‘Do you know her?’ he finally says.

‘Sorry?’ Kat says again, but in confusion this time.

‘The woman who lives in that house,’ the guy spits out, nodding his head towards Beth’s house. ‘Are you friends with her?’

‘No, I … What’s it got to do with you, anyway?’ Kat blusters, trying to meet his threatening tone with something close to assertive. But he ignores her question.

‘Do you know what she did?’ he says, stepping forward until his face is only inches from hers. ‘She let a man die, caused his death, watched it happen.’

Kat shakes her head, trying to make sense of what he’s saying. Is he talking about the drug addict Beth called the ambulance for the other night? Kat can smell the man now, the vinegary cologne of stale sweat. His lips are curled into a snarl, but his eyes don’t quite match up. They’re grey, like Kat’s, but with a hint of blue that makes them look almost celestial in the glow from the overhead streetlamp. And they flicker with more than anger. He suddenly reminds Kat of her teenage self, and she feels a rush of sympathy for him.

‘She wasn’t responsible,’ she whispers. Her face prickles in the cold air, and she suppresses the urge to scratch her skin. ‘It’s a tragedy, him dying,’ she continues, ‘the paramedics not being able to save his life. But it’s not Beth’s fault.’

‘You don’t know shit, you fat cow. Fat and stupid.’