And what if you look into that history, knowing the key to be there, but can’t find it? It must be there, for where else could it be?

This day, then, 7 July 2005, more than ten years ago – the first day I stayed home from work and got drunk. Where the nightmares of dust and smoke and burial began. Was that the Rubicon, the tipping point? No; it was a unique and terrible day, and afterwards I went back to work as normal and it was still quite possible to leave beer in the fridge unopened and forget about it, and so it was for months or years after that. Perhaps there were underlying traits and tendencies and pathologies that could be traced back further, but at that point in my life I was only as fucked-up as the average person. Although …

More than ten years ago. Mine was a very long drop.

Alan was not dead, or trapped and blinded in a sweltering hell while rescue workers battled to reach him. He was alive, and above ground, and calling my phone.

I surveyed the pub: a big, bland railway Wetherspoon’s. It was almost empty and nearly silent, no music, no one playing fruit machines, no football, no giveaway background noises. There was only one other customer, a guy about my age, who was using his phone to take a picture of his shoes. A radio was playing in the kitchen, but it was safe to answer the call.

‘What the fuck, man?’ Alan was whispering, in a quiet place himself. There was anger in his voice, but it was not ruling over other emotions: confusion, and perhaps even concern.

‘Alan, hi.’

‘What the fuck happened to you, man?’

‘I was sure I could smell smoke. It was freaking me out.’

‘That’s … There wasn’t any smoke, man.’

‘I’m sorry.’

‘It’s Oli you want to be sorry to, you need to get here sharpish. I’m here now, said you were delayed. Where are you, are you on your way?’

‘Yes.’ About a third of a pint left.

‘We’re doing the shoot. Get here fast and I think you’ll be OK.’

‘OK. Thanks. Sorry.’

‘Oli’s a nice guy. You’ll be fine if you get here in the next five, ten minutes.’

‘Sure.’

‘Can you do that?’

‘Sure.’

I didn’t like this ‘Oli’ business one bit. Exactly as I had feared, they were bonding. I gave thought to an additional half-pint, but on this occasion moderation triumphed.