It would do. I went to the kitchen and found the squash concentrate in a cupboard. Beside it was the whisky we had drunk together earlier in the week – about a quarter left. Whatever Pierce’s mental turmoil, he hadn’t been binge drinking, and I hated him for that.

I took the miniature from my coat pocket. That pocket also contained the postcard from my mother, the picture of the cockatoo. I took that out as well.

Room temperature vodka and room temperature lemon squash alone would be revolting. Looking in Pierce’s fridge, I found a full filter jug of water, and a couple more cans of Heineken. I took out another can, and opened it. I still wasn’t sure what I wanted from Pierce, but drinking all of his booze was a good start.

When I turned to leave the kitchen, Pierce was standing in the archway. He leaned against the wall as if relaxed, but his whole manner was devoid of nonchalance.

‘Making yourself at home?’ he said, coming through and checking over the kitchen as if trying to discern what I had stolen. Arriving at a wooden knife block, he tapped his index finger on the handle of each of the four blades it held. Counting them? Checking I hadn’t armed myself? Had he used one of those knives the previous night to threaten De Chauncey? Was I in danger?

‘What’s this?’ he asked. In his hand was the postcard from my parents, which I had left on the counter.

‘I got it this morning,’ I said. Pierce was already reading the back, so it was superfluous to explain who had sent it. ‘By the time it arrived, there was no letterbox for it to go through.’

‘Huh,’ Pierce said. ‘Mugged, twice, and then your house falls down. Authentic experiences seem to follow you around. Some people have all the luck.’

‘Mugged three times, now,’ I said, fixing Pierce with a stare. Or trying to, because he turned his back on me, and opened a kitchen drawer. For a moment I thought he might be putting the postcard in there, but he had left it on the side, and it wasn’t clear what he was doing – taking out a small object, a tiny glitter of chrome, a weapon? But it was small enough to palm without my seeing more. Why was I so nervous around Pierce? His behaviour was off, for sure. Did I have reason to fear him? Or was I sensing my own conflicted motives reflected back at me? Did I mean to hurt Pierce?

‘I guess that’s right,’ Pierce said, returning to the living room. ‘Three times. You never did tell me about the second time.’

Nor did I intend to. Not at this moment, in any case. My gaze had rested upon the cockatoo, which tipped its head at me, as if waiting for me to say or do something.