He didn’t look at me, but he winced. ‘Well, if it was true, it wouldn’t belong only to me, would it? It would belong to … to the ones who …’ and he trailed away, absorbed in an internal struggle beyond my sight.

I had about a third of the can left, and I drained it. During the journey over, I had discovered a vodka miniature in my pocket, the last survivor of my stealthy office session yesterday. Only yesterday. It was warm.

‘Do you have any mixers?’ I asked. ‘Coke?’

‘Lemon squash?’ Pierce said absently.

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.’