The casket slid towards the curtains. The idea of Sabine being inside it felt forced. The ideas of Sabine being a hoarder, of Sabine having a brother who was alive, those were foreign enough. But Sabine dead? And dead for seven months? The words, the place, the music, the coffin: I struggled to connect them with the person I thought I’d known.

The coffin slowly slid through the curtains.

When the music ended, the crematorium was quiet. I’d asked Sabine once, What music would you like in the afterlife? She’d said, Silence. I wondered if she’d told the man at the piano something different. He smoothed a piece of navy felt over the piano keys and, gently, put the lid of the piano down. I felt strangely moved by his delicate tribute.

The red velvet curtains closed and the coffin disappeared.

The pub closest to the crematorium had green carpet tiles, a wall-mounted TV, and an imitation antique clock with hands stuck on a quarter past three. Unlike the White Hart, it didn’t have a plastic pink stag’s head festooned with fairy lights above the bar. Nor did it have a jukebox. But it had a fruit machine: two apples in a row next to a number seven.

“Have a go?”

I turned to see the pianist next to me at the bar. He had something of Sabine’s drawl, though his voice was deeper and louder. “I was wondering who’d come here in the mood to play,” I said.

He cocked an eyebrow. “Sabine would. She could never resist fruit machines.”

“You’re her brother?”

“Yes, my name’s Xavier. And you are?”

“Meggie.”

“Nice to meet you, Meggie.” After getting a large red wine, he moved off.

With three of the same, I headed back to Sherry and Earl.

We clinked our glasses. “SJ.”

There was a silence.

Then Sherry said, “Can you believe nobody missed her in seven months?”

“I hadn’t seen her in about twenty years,” I said.

“Ditto,” said Earl. “Big city. People move on.”

“Still,” said Sherry. “Nobody.”

“It’s easy to fall off the grid,” said Earl. “She obviously had mental health issues.”

“Maybe she got involved with an abusive guy,” said Sherry. “He isolated her until he was all she had. Then . . .” She slit her hand across her neck.

“She might have been murdered?” I said.

“Murder, suicide. We’ll never know,” said Earl.

We were all quiet, chastened.

Eventually, I said to Earl, “It’s strange to see you without Coño.”

“She died seven years ago in February.” Earl rubbed a knuckle in the corner of his eye.

“How?” I said.

“Canine bloat.”

“I’m sorry, Earl. She was a great dog.”

“Her greatness lives on in her daughter,” said Sherry.

“What’s the daughter called?”

“Also Coño,” said Earl.

“Why d’you call every dog Coño?”

“’S a beautiful name,” said Earl. “The best.”