I pored over the picture, trying to make out features amid the ruins. What was I looking for? The fridge, perhaps, tumbled like a dice. Not that I could get to it. In the lower left-hand corner of the picture was a shape, a curl of white plastic – the edge, I realised, of a drone, part of the circular guard around one of its rotors. That was how news organisation got pictures like this, now, so much cheaper than a helicopter. Would I be on the evening news? Where would I watch it?

Kay returned, with a pint.

‘We haven’t had a drink in ages,’ I said.

She gave me an appraising look, and said nothing. I wondered if I had said the wrong thing.

‘This is nice,’ I said, raising my glass. ‘I’m pleased you got your job back.’

‘Are you OK?’ she said, and although she didn’t elaborate on what she meant, the look she threw at my beer said enough on its own.

‘I’m not well,’ I said. ‘I’ll figure it out.’

‘Is that why you’ve been avoiding me?’ she asked ‘I used to enjoy hanging out with you, but the last few weeks, it’s like you don’t want to know.’

I didn’t reply. At first. And then I realised that I did have a reply.

‘Maybe I didn’t want to be asked if I was OK,’ I said.

‘Well, excuse me.’

‘No, no. That not really what I mean. I mean … I’ve been having a rough time. I didn’t want anyone else getting drawn into it, getting hurt. I really enjoyed hanging out with you as well. I suppose I wanted to … preserve that.’

She sipped her lager. I wondered what kind it was, and felt the usual pang of outraged jealousy that came with watching non-alcoholics drink, that it could be so easy for them, that they would reach a point when they didn’t want any more, how could they, how could they.

Kay removed a touch of foam from her top lip with a flash of tongue, and said, ‘Bollocks.’

‘Bollocks?’

‘Bollocks. I think you had it right the first time, more or less, not wanting to be asked if you were OK; you’ve been following your little trajectory, you know where you’re going, and you didn’t want the hassle of dealing with other people along the way. Getting asked if you were OK might mean admitting you’re not OK. You’ve been streamlining.’

‘Bollocks,’ I said.

She shrugged, and made a face. ‘What will you do now? Tonight? Go to a Travelodge or a Way Inn? Do you have family you could stay with? A friend you can call?’

Another time, I might have taken this for flirting, but it was most definitely not an invitation, though the underlying concern was real.

‘Yes,’ I said. ‘I do.’

TWELVE