My deceit was fully formed and disastrous. I should have said … almost anything else. I should have prepared Eddie for the bad news that I would inevitably have to deliver once I was in the office: no record of the Pierce interview; no interview with De Chauncey at all. But instead I had lied. I knew exactly why I lied: I wanted to enjoy a single second of normal, cheerful interaction with Eddie. To perpetuate, for the shortest time, the impression that I continued to function. To live in a way that was not simply waiting for disgrace, and death.

The white shirt and smart trousers I had worn the night before were heaped on the floor beside the bed, on top of a trampled stratum of older, dirtier laundry. That was good – I would at least look fairly presentable. But then I recalled the condition of my face, and to recall it was to crack the veneer of numbness like the crust of a crème brûlée and feel the pain again.

If only I could have that drink. The emergency ultimatum from the office overpowered even the Need’s ability to keep me in place, but it would not give up. Opening my shoulder bag to check its contents – no DVRs, of course – I discovered the aluminium water bottle I had used to take beer on the train last night. It was empty, and a little sticky. Moving briskly, feeling efficient, I took it to the kitchen, ran it under the tap, dried it off and refilled it with two cans from the fridge. (Two of the three remaining – I had, it appeared, been industrious on my return, and the living room was mined with empties and not-so-empties.)

Another shameful first. Maybe there wasn’t much material difference between drinking in the shower in the morning and drinking on the Tube in the morning; maybe there wasn’t much material difference between drinking at lunch and taking drink into the office. Every daring transgression became every day in time.