Ocado bags were scattered in Pierce’s hall. Not the fridge and freezer bags – if there had been any of those, he had put them away – but anything that could be left had been left. Profile antennae still twitching, without purpose, I scanned the bags for insights. He liked Krave, the chocolate-filled cereal, which struck me as childish and odd. But his essays did have a sugar-crazed quality. I thought back to our expedition on Tuesday, the police public relations shed in the forecourt of the Ocado depot, right next to the source of the plume. Don’t knock Ocado, Pierce had said. They had kept him alive in the days following the Night Traffic attack, when he couldn’t leave the house. An interesting detail to invent, given that there had been no attack and nothing had been stopping him leaving the house. Who had been watching?

I said something about the bags to Pierce. ‘Yeah, I’ve been meaning to get around to that,’ he replied. He was already a couple of steps up the stairs; stung, he returned, picked up two bags in each hand, and sprinted back up. I picked up two bags as well, including the one with the box of Krave.

Pierce’s flat had not been tidy when I was here on Tuesday, but it was distinctly messier today. Two plates, bearing the remains of two distinct meals, had been left on the dining table, and a couple of empty beer bottles. Not many by my standards, but they would have been the first things to go if he had made any effort to clear up.

He gave me a beer – a Heineken, in a can – and I told him about my house.

‘So you’ve got nothing? No clothes, nothing?’

I nodded.

‘Wait here.’ He left the living room.

I hadn’t said anything about losing my job – about quitting my job. I had quit, not been fired, I needed to be clear about that even to myself. Especially to myself, before a fiction began to cloud and supplant the truth. Nor did I intend to say anything. He didn’t have to know, for now.

When Pierce came back, he was carrying a pair of trousers. ‘You can have these, they’re a bit tight for me now.’ He patted his paunch. ‘This is, ah, the director’s cut.’

While I changed, Pierce turned his back to me, looking at the map that filled his wall. ‘Where was it you said you lived, again? Pimlico?’

‘Yeah.’

He smoothed the scraps on that part of the map, and picked through them. ‘Technically part of the East End, if you believe soil is destiny – built up from the flood plain using spoil from the excavation of one of the docks.’