Angelica. It comes to me in a flash. Her name is Angelica.

‘Angelica, why did you come and find me?’

She looks up, the wary expression intensifying. ‘You’re the father. It’s not like I expect you to marry me or something Victorian like that, but . . .’

‘This can’t happen.’

She points at her belly and makes a face. ‘Er. It is happening.’

‘You don’t get it. I’m probably going to prison.’

‘What?’ Her eyes open wide. In her world, I guess, no one goes to prison.

‘I haven’t killed anyone. Or hurt anyone.’

‘What did you do?’

I did what I was raised to do: took money from the rich and the dumb, to give it to the disadvantaged – me, that is. Yeah, my dad used that line too. ‘It’s to do with money. When I’m not working the festivals, I can’t pay my rent.’

‘Did you steal?’

‘Only technically. We did some work on houses. Overcharged here and there.’ It’s a version of the truth.

She takes in the squalor around us. At least she can see I haven’t spent the proceeds of crime living the high life. ‘So will you really be sent to prison?’

I shrug. ‘I’m going to plead not guilty.’

‘Are you not guilty, though?’ she asks, like it’s ever that simple.

‘Listen, Angelica, what do you want from me? There’s no happy ending here, you can see that, right?’

She stands up hurriedly and the tea splashes all over the floor. ‘I don’t want anything from you, wanker!’ She’s trying to get out, but the hallway’s too narrow for two people, one of them pregnant, and as she struggles, I can see she’s crying.

‘Don’t rush off while you’re upset.’

‘I just . . .’ Her breathing’s gone weird.

Mine too. What if I’ve triggered something disastrous with the baby? With my daughter. If I am going to be responsible for another death. Even two.

‘Please calm down, Angelica.’

‘I don’t want to be on my own.’

Of all the things she could say . . . I put my arms out and around her body, familiar from that weekend but different too. My dad would comfort her, make promises, then immediately relocate somewhere he couldn’t be found.

But as her tears soak my sweatshirt, I think, This could be my chance to make everything right. To change my future.

‘You won’t be alone.’ And she cries louder, and I tighten my hold on her, but not so tight it’d hurt the baby. ‘It’s OK, Angelica, I’ll be here.’

‘Dan?’ Gemma’s voice comes as a shock.

‘Sorry, I was thinking. I wasn’t expecting you to say what you did about your . . . future plans.’

She takes a deep breath. ‘There’s one more thing,’ she says, and I think, What else could there be? ‘The IVF. The embryo? It’s my husband’s. My late husband’s.’

I stare at her.

‘When my husband got his diagnosis, we were advised to have his sperm frozen before his treatment started.’ She speaks slowly, like a maths teacher trying to explain a complicated equation. ‘When he went into remission, I had a cycle of IVF to create embryos to use when he was a hundred per cent better. We made four. But then, he didn’t get better.’